


The Scars of Our Past

by VictoriaWoodmaine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ex-Soldier!John, Homophobia, Love, M/M, Medical Trauma, Mentions of rape later on, Nightmares, Past Sexual Abuse, Psychological Trauma, Rape, Scotland Yard!Sherlock, Secret Relationship, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Assault, WIP, Work In Progress, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-01-16 18:47:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 33,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1358056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VictoriaWoodmaine/pseuds/VictoriaWoodmaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being invalided in Afghanistan John Watson has only one way left to make a living once he is back home- he starts an escort business and sells his body.<br/>One day a client knocks at his door. A broken soul covered in scars. His name is Sherlock Holmes and he demands John's services...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A demanding client

**Author's Note:**

> Work in progress, so be aware!  
> I had the idea for this whilst pacing the sitting room of my shared London flat last october.  
> It sat on my computer for months but now I think it's time to post it.  
> It's only this first chapter so far, so feedback would be awesome!
> 
> Let's see where I can take this...
> 
>  
> 
> I do not give permission to repost, reproduce or archive this fanfic in part or in it's entirety to any other website except with prior written consent provided by myself, nor any profit be made from any of these works under any circumstances whatsoever.

 

 

Sweat was dripping from Sherlock Holmes' forehead.

His hands were fisted into the pillow underneath him.  
  


 _'More!'_

He demanded and strong hands grabbed him hard by the hips. 

Knuckles turning white with the strain of the tendons in the other man's fingers.  
  


 

_'Give. Me. More!_

_Please!_

_Oh, god!'_

And his partner increased the rhythm of his thrusts.

Relentlesly he pumped his hips, drove deeper and deeper into Sherlock's core until said man began to shiver violently, not only with the strain of his muscles trying to keep him in an upright position, but with the oncoming storm of his release.  
  
He huffed out a breath, panting, his heart skipping several beats and he shivered again and again until with a long and hoarse cry he announced the peak of his pleasure and panted and gasped and moaned until he eventually came down from the high that is the sweet sensation of orgasm. 

Then his muscles finally gave in- worked beyond proper functionality and he collapsed under the weight of his bedmate. 

Skin on skin, hot and flushed and utterly spent he could feel how the other man was coming down from the orgasmic spheres himself, his laboured breathing the best indicator of his role in this little game of love.  
  


 

They had done this before.

Several times.

And although John usually never got beyond first name terms with his clients, this was something different.

With others, there was no need for formal introductions.

John was a discreet professional and they were his patrons.

Here it was quite the opposite, in fact.

With this man John knew that other measures were called for.

 

Secrecy was the most import part of John's trade beside proper protection against disease.

And although John knew that Sherlock was clean, he nonetheless carefully withdrew himself from the heat of the other man's body, holding onto the latex with trained movements of his fingers and then pulled it off his gradually softening erection.

The bin beside the bed was an obligatory peace of furniture, neatly integrated into the decor of the room, which was welcoming and created an atmosphere of comfort, yet at the same time displayed obvious signs of its functionality and professional use.  
  
It was John's own bedroom indeed.

Not a room in some shabby backstreet club, no.

The service he provided was an illusion of domesticity.

His clients were ought to feel as if visiting their boyfriend.

There was tea or dinner upon request (extra fees occured, naturally) but John had managed to gain a large number of patrons for exactly that reason. 

They did't feel dirty or ashamed when they visited him.

He succeeded in making them feel as if each one of them were special. 

As if his bed was truly theirs and all his focus solely on them.

Of course they knew that it wasn't true. 

But there was this or going to an establishment where a box of tissues and a bowl of condoms was on open display on the night stand and the sheets looked seriously soiled already.  
  


 

John had standards and so did his clients. 

He didn't accept everyone.

Clearly he wouldn't ask for a CV- that would go against all the standards of secrecy a prostitute had or should have, but he would talk to each and every one of them beforehand.

Get aquainted.

Build some degree of trust.

Know what was liked and disliked.

Learn the boundaries as well as the preferences.

And it was almost as if they would meet in a bar or a club despite the fact that they were already in his home.

Maybe that's why his business had prospered so well ever since he started it eight months ago.

It was a unique service.

High standards.

Absolute discretion but the perfect illusion of love and comfort.  
  


 

_'That was just what I needed.'_

Sherlock finally managed to say.

His face still buried in the pillow. 

John lying on top of him- utterly content as well.  
  


 

_'I know.'_

He whispered in Sherlock's ear softly and drew little circles onto the scarred skin of the other man's back.

 

  
 _'You had a hard day, I suppose?'_

He enquired, and usually he wouldn't have dared to ask any further, but this man, lying underneath him, was special.  
  


Of him he knew the last name and what he did for a living.

Other than most of his clients, the initial talk- 'the dating'- had given him a hard time to consider if he should accept this man as his patron at all. 

Sherlock Holmes had scars.

Physical ones as well as mental ones and he had not hesitated in sharing them with John.  
  


Vaguely he had described what had happened to him on his seventeenth birthday, but John hadn't needed any details to realise that Sherlock would be a special client with other needs than just a casual, falsely-intimate shag every now and then. 

This man required all the gentleness and delicacy that John could offer as well as all his passion as it turned out later. 

He was a challenge. 

A fragile human being when it came to sex and yet demanding at times and John still didn't understand what made him switch from one to the other.

And frankly, it was none of his business anyway. 

Yet, there was a curiosity that lingered in the air everytime Sherlock demanded things of him that went beyond all of his expectations of a man with such a past.  
  


 

 _'Very.'_

His client lazily shifted beneath him and he instantly understood the gesture and rolled off him, curling up on his side next to him. 

With a groan Sherlock turned onto his back and stared at the ceiling.

 

_'You are amazing. You know that, do you?'_

A soft whisper.

Exhaustion pulling at his eyelids and he allowed them to close for a second.  
  


 

_'You obviously needed it, Sherlock.'_

John continued to draw circles on the other man's chest now.  
  


 

_'And I am very happy that you give it to me.'_

His voice was faint, slightly slurred by sheer exhaustion and John knew that he was about to drift off to sleep.  
  


Usually he would only allow his clients half an hour of sleep and then discreetly wake them with a cup of coffee or tea and coax them into leaving.

Part of the service.

Domesticity. 

No kicking your clients out of bed because the schedule demands a shower before the next one arrives. 

Everyone was special and the centre of his attention.

Until they crossed his threshold again. 

But this man...

He just couldn't deny him this. 

This post-coital peace that he so clearly was in need of.

He was special, there was no denying that.

But John had no problem with that.

They both knew where they stood.

They had defined the boundaries of their relationship upon the first instance and neither of them had any interest in taking it further than this- comfort, release and a discreet, trustworthy shoulder to sleep on after a bad day.

And John had to admit that he enjoyed this special kind of agreement just as much as his client obviously did. 

It was a welcome change to actually wake up next to a warm body in the morning that didn't demand a little 'extra treatment' out of goodwill like some of his more dominant or arrogant clients did after their thirty minute rest.

Sherlock was someone who was genuinely grateful for the closeness and often woke with a happy smile on his face and sometimes, John thought, even with his name on his lips upon rousing. And that was an experience John did not make often. Or had done so in the past. He enjoyed the early hours of the day that they shared just as much.  
  
That's why Sherlock was John's only client to get such a late appointment and the allowance to stay for the night.

The man himself wasn't even aware of that.    
He was simply there in the morning, grateful enough for the body heat they shared and the small illusion of intimacy upon waking up in a tangled mess of soiled sheets and smelling the musky remnants of last nights activities. 

Sherlock didn't ask and John didn't tell.

 

_'Sleep tight, Sherlock.'_

He murmured and drifted off to slumbers himself- sated and content with his special client next to him.  
  



	2. The Proof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you all left such encouraging feedback and kudos here's another chapter I just whipped up :)  
> The doctor's signed me off work for another week, so there's time to write more. YAY!

 

 

 

The spray of the shower hit his scars like the caress of a ghost.

Long ago acquired, it had taken years for them to heal.

The physical ones.

The proof of trauma.

The proof of weakness.

The proof of a time in his life he very much wanted to delete but was haunted by, day in, day out.

Dusk to dawn.

Not a minute he couldn't feel their haunting presence, feel the tension of the scar tissue whenever he flexed a muscle in his back.

Flinching when a colleague placed a hand on his back during conversation, an innocent gesture that triggered images in his mind, pictures of blood and pain and hours spent lying curled up in a bath tub.

The cold porcelain soothing his broken skin, the blood easily removed with a rinse of the shower head.

No evidence.

It never happened.

Not for anyone else.

Just for him.  
  


 

He turned his face towards the water, lifting his face to the onslaught of drops.  
  
Dihydrogenoxide.

H2O.

Water.

Pure, innocent liquid.

70% of who he was.

Not enough.

In moments like this he wished he could just liquify and follow the water down the drain.

Vanish.

Who would notice it anyway?  
  


Lestrade.

He seems concerned enough that I sometimes appear at work in a foul mood and with a hangover.

Probably not concerned enough, though.  
  


Mike Stamford.

His neighbour.

The man who invited him over to have dinner with him and his wife out of pity.

He would notice if he were gone.  
  


John.  
  
Sherlock snapped out of his fantasy, the dark cloud surrounding him vanishing in an instant as he thought of John.  
  
The only one who mattered.  
  
John would be upset, certainly.

Despite the lingering feeling Sherlock carefully avoided to put a name to- they were clearly more than just a client and his provider- but apart from that?

Friends?

Certainly not.

No one befriended Sherlock Holmes.

And Sherlock Holmes didn't want anyone to try.

Fuck buddies.

That's what they were.

They might go out for a pint before they shagged, barely keeping any form of conversation but nonetheless- if at all Sherlock Holmes had someone he trusted or considered a friend in this world it was John Watson.

And for John it seemed to be the same.

How many friends did an invalid, traumatised ex-soldier have when he worked as a male prostitute?

What friend would allow his pal to earn his money in this fashion and not help him out- trying to find another way, a different way?

No, John had as many friends as Sherlock did.

One.  
  


 

He reached out to turn off the water when the bathroom door opened.  
  


 

_'Are you staying for coffee, Sherlock?'_

Quick.

Precise.

Efficient.

John.  
  


 

_'Yes, please.'_   
  


 

_'Mind if I shave while you finish?'_   
  


 

_'Nope.'_   
  


 

The door closed and the sound of bare feet on tiles filled the room.

As John filled the sink with water, Sherlock stepped out of the shower and looked for a towel.

In an instant John's hand offered a piece of fluffy cotton that, as Sherlock realised once he slung it around his hips, was freshly laundered and still a little warm.  
  


 

_'Thanks.'_

The Scotland Yard detective grumbled and stepped in front of the mirror next to John.

As he gazed upon his reflection he could almost feel John's eyes on him- searching.  
  
It was almost funny how Sherlock was hyper-sensitive to practically anyone else seeing or touching his skin but not with John.  
  
When John saw his scars he didn't feel exposed or self-concious.

No rage filling him, aimed against his teenaged self for being so blind and stupid, aimed at his tormenter for ever laying a single finger on him.

Not with John though.

He deduced the difference was based on the fact that John had scars of his own.

A bullet hole as proof of his last and final tour in Afghanistan.

Scar tissue surrounding it as remnants of desperate army surgeons, digging fingers into the wound, cutting open more flesh to get control over a torn subclavian artery.

None of this John had told him in any detail.

But it was obvious.

For Sherlock at least.  
  
Every scar had its story.

And John's were stories of war.  
  


 

Sherlock blinked and focused on his reversed image in the glass in front of him.  
  
A love bite on his shoulder.

Brilliant.  
  
A smile crossed his lips and the skin around his eyes crinkled.  
  


 

_'Care to share your happiness?'_

John commented and concentrated on applying shaving foam to his face.  
  


 

_'Just. The mark.'_

He touched it with his fingers.

The faint sting of pain a bittersweet sensation on his shower-heated skin.  
  


 

_'You asked for it._

_Be careful what you wish for._

_Told ya.'_

John mocked and dragged the razor along his cheek.  
  


 

_'It's beautiful. Thank you.'_

Sherlock replied.

Then cleared his throat and started to towel off.

Silence filled the room as both men committed themselves to their morning toilette, a routine they had developed months ago.  
  


 

Dressed up in his usual suit, Sherlock glanced at John, who was busy wiping the remaining shaving foam off his face and rinsing it with fresh water.  
  
In a fit of contentment, Sherlock stepped behind him and wrapped his arms around the shorter man's waist.  
  
John's skin and body were admirable.

Eighteen months off duty.

A year of rehabilitation after the shooting and six months in this business now and John was still fit to enter a warzone.

If he could carry the kit.

The problem was not that he had trouble with the mobility of his arm but that he sometimes hardly was able to hold a full kettle of tea water without dropping it.

The strength in his injured arm was impaired and no one had use for a soldier who couldn't carry his kit.

Or hold a machine gun.  
  
Nonetheless John was determined to keep working out, stay in shape not only to suit his client's expectations but for himself.

With post traumatic stress disorder and the general feeling of being useless for almost anything, he at least had this to be proud of.  
  
And Sherlock was grateful as well.

John was every bit graceful, strong and athletic.

He could still hold his own in a pub fight and he kept trying to improve the strength in his arm by lifting weights.

He was an intriguing figure when he was undressed and Sherlock knew he was one of many who got to see him like this, but the contentment in John's sigh as he placed his own hands over Sherlock's as they lay on his stomach told Sherlock it was something more that they shared.

He didn't know what exactly, feared to define it or put too much meaning behind it- he was not interested in domesticity, but he couldn't help these urges to touch, to caress, to give John signs of affection that he had never once felt for his own ex-wife.  
  
They stood, embraced, eyes closed until eventually they snapped out of their bubble of a different reality, a different life with different experiences and a different past for both of them and they became aware of their position, their scars and their duties again.  
  


 

Sherlock retreated to the kitchen until John was finished and they had coffee and a slice of toast each without saying another word.  
  
When Sherlock approached the front door, John was right behind him, and although the detective was aware that the next client was scheduled for 10AM, he knew that the other man wouldn't get a kiss goodbye like he did now.  
  
He turned, slung an arm halfway around John's waist and bent his head.  
  
For the brief second that their lips met, they were engulfed in their bubble again.

Together in pain, together in bliss.

As they parted, they shared a lingering moment of staring into each other's eyes, saying more than a thousand words and yet not phrasing out loud what both of them thought.  
  
This.

This was the beginning of something.

What, was yet to be defined.

Would be, could be named and cherished and lived.

Lost and grieved.

But none of them wanted to think about that option.

Wanted to keep it vague and precius.

An adventure.

Not another story of a love broken.

Faded.

Gone.

Both of them had been there before.  
  
The scars that they shared were the proof of that.


	3. The Only Way I Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock keeps writing things down. That's the way he works and copes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It continues.  
> I don't know if I'm simply nuts or it's a common thing, but I get these flashes of story bits and as I am an actress at heart I like to 'play those out' for real.  
> I'm a super empathic (?) person and so this story covers everything I'd do to play a twisted, fucked up character that has hit rock bottom and finds love in the safe arms of a male a prostitute and what he would feel/think or do.  
> Oh yes, I am a woman, but well.  
> And you should have seen me have a go at 'Frankenstein'....oh the carpets....

 

 

 

The sincerity in John's eyes and in the way his lips gently touched his, made something within Sherlock's stomach flutter in a curious way.  
  


That night's entry into Sherlock's personal diary read like this:  
  


 **Category:** John

 **Type:** draft of personal letter

 **Motivation:** sex, emotion, positive, happiness

 **Status:** unsend  
  


As you fuck me with ardour, clutching my hips in your strong hands, keeping me exactly where you want me.

Pounding, pounding, so much pounding.

More, more, not enough, never enough.

Harder, harder I demand.

And you give it to me.

You always do.

I don't know why you do this, how you do this.

Where you take that trust from, that what I demand and what we do won't break me, make me snap.  
  


 

When I told you about my scars, you just nodded.

As if you don't mind.

Don't mind, don't pity me, don't give me those looks that I can't bear when I know people, doctors, nurses imagine how I acquired them.

Checking my medical records and read about the endeavours of a seventeen year old moron.

The lessons he learned.

The amount of time it must have taken for those wounds to heal and yet they're never really fading. 

Not one bit.

Not one moment I can't recall the agony, the pleasure in his eyes, his voice, his grunts.

The velocity of his fist.

Every hit.

Not a second I don't choke upon the irony of it all- leading me to you, asking for more.

Begging.

 

But it's different.

With you I know I am safe.

You hurt me, but because I want it.

Demand it.

I have control over the situation.

I am the commander, I give you orders.

You're a soldier, you can't help it.

You want it.

Look at us.  
  


 

I give you pleasure as well.

How I manage to beyond the obvious physical stimulus, I cannot comprehend but I am eager to find out.

Endeavour.

Explore once more how far I can go.

How far will you take me?

Let me go?

Will you be there when I need you?

Or will I lie abandoned, covered in bruises and come?  
  
This is sick, I am aware of it.

But this is the only way I ever learned to cope.

The only way I know.  
  


 

Pain- so excruciating and exquisite, controlled, leading to the point of numbness, screaming white noise inside of my head, threatening to burst my skull to pieces.

Deafening.

And then- oblivion.

Lying and shaking, shivering from the physical strain, my muscles protesting, my most secret pleasure point aching, stinging from your intrusion. 

Again, again.

Harder.

Even harder.  
  


 

I crave you, John.

I crave everything you give me, offer me and everything you stand for.

With you I feel safe, with you I feel home and in a place where I can let go.

Drop my mask and finally breathe.

Breathe the sweet scent of your skin on mine.

The tea you share with me.

The detergent of your sheets or the stink of your dog.

You don't judge me.

 

I indulge in the habit of always returning to you, not knowing where this leads, what this is or how long I can afford it.

I have no illusions about whether I am special to you.

Certainly I prove to be one of a kind in all aspects of life, also in sex.

But I do not flatter myself thinking I am of any special meaning to you or anyone else.  
  


 

I am a scarred man, but I am not the only one.

And I only have to look as far as to you or the office to see the faults and haunting memories in everyone's faces.

We share at least that.

The scars life gives us.

What we wear on our skins as tokens of living, struggling or enjoying it.

Running around searching for a thing we will likely never find, getting hurt along the way.  
  


 

I thank you, John.

I thank you for your patience, your bravery and the gentleness you show towards me after we shared our orgasms.

I thank you for smiling whenever you open the door to me- I try to make myself believe it's genuine- and for brushing even a single fingertip over my body because it's more than I could have ever imagined getting.

I thank you for charging me buckets of money so that I can still pretend it's nothing serious, involving sentiment or the potential for heartbreak, only a business relationship, not the choking strings of love.  
  
I'll carry on to be your patron, your most demanding, no doubting that, but only one of many.

Otherwise I shall freak out and run from the implications of that.

 

A ridiculous man is what I am and an admirable one I found in you and somehow that completes itself. 

Remain by my side and I will keep ordering you around. 

I know you like it.

 

 

Or do you not...?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One line in this chapter is reference to a funny memory I have of my three weeks in London last year.
> 
> I'm talking about a lovely evening at Bart's that I spent with AtlinMerrick and Kizzia and one other lovely lady (whose name I forgot, give me a shout!) and how we went on to have thai food and I talked about a *really* sick fanfic I read about Sherlock getting violently fucked and John coming home to find him and have a go himself because 'Oh, he wouldn't mind, he's already covered in bruises and come'.
> 
> As I said those words I wasn't in the least aware of the waiter and the entire table next to us staring at me...
> 
> It was a brillinat night! Thanks again, girls! I still turn red at the memory...


	4. Lasagna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG I hope I'm not writing myself into a corner already. I feel like the first chapter was awesome and now it's...I dunno.  
> Still any good?

 

 

 

Screaming. 

Rattling of the bed frame. 

Greedy moans and whimpers of discomfort. 

Skin on skin. 

Slapping. 

Grunts and curses and names exclaimed.

  
Sex. 

John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.  
  
  


 

Screaming. 

Rattling of the bed frame. 

Greedy moans and whimpers of ecstasy. 

Skin on skin. 

Slapping. 

Grunts and curses and the wrong name exclaimed in the most important moment.  
  


John watson and his 10 am client.  
  
  


 

A pause. 

And a revelation.

Another curse.

Then- 

silence.  
  
Jumping out of bed, John Watson's head spun.  
  
Where did that come from?  
  
Oh, James was going to be upset. 

So very upset.  
  
Damn.  
  
As John slowly turned around towards the bed, his client was yawning sleepily and then smiling.  
  
Had he not heard? 

Or had John just imagined moaning Sherlock's name, pleading for his climax?

No, couldn't be. 

His client would be upset if he had done it out loud. 

But he wasn't. 

No signs of disapproval or anger.  
  
Maybe he really had imagined it?

After a deep breath John got rid of the condom and walked back to the bed.  
  


 _'You fine?'_

He asked. 

 

But Jim was already asleep.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Eighteen minutes.   
  
Eighteen minutes in the same room with these imbeciles and Sherlock Holmes was on the edge of going on a killing spree.  
  


 _'How can you be so vacant?!'_

He shouted across the conference table and got to his feet.  
  


 _'Sherlock, calm down!'_

Lestrade tried to deescalate the situation.  
  


_'How can I remain calm when all I get is this?'_   
  


_'Well maybe you should stop being so arrogant and share some details of your so-called 'deductions' and not expect us to take your ridiculous babble as gospel!'_

Michaels said, using his fingers to quote.  
  


Sherlock stopped pacing and glared at him.

Then- with an exasperated huff he turned, storming towards the door.  
  


_'Oh no, the diva's doing it again.'_

Henderson mocked and leaned back in his seat.  
  


_'Do the world a favour and shut up.'_

Sherlock barked.  
  


_'Do us a favour and piss off, freak!'_

Henderson replied.  
  
Sherlock threw one last glance towards Lestrade and slammed the door shut behind him on his way out.  
  
Outside the conference room the other officers had gone quiet.

Some of them stared, some of them had the decency to at least pretend not to eavesdrop.  
  


_'Get back to work!'_

Sherlock snarled and stalked into his office, slamming yet another door.  
  


* * *

  
_'God, help me.'_

John muttered as he sat down on the edge of his bathtub.

With his face buried in his hands, he tried to chase away images of pale skin and dark hair, a body writhing on the bed.

His bed.

His client, who had apparently turned into something more over the course of the past six months.  
  
How did that happen?  
  


He had no problem keeping his distance to his other clients.

It was sex, nothing else- they needed and he provided.  
  


But Sherlock was different.

Had been from the beginning.

And now John wondered if all this had been one big mistake.  
  
How could he do this any longer?

How could he end it?  
  
He couldn't even bear the thought of sending Sherlock away, taking this away from him, when the other man so desperately needed it.  
  


But was it just that for him?

The sex?

Clearly he could find relief somewhere else.

He wasn't attached to John.  
  
Did he want to be?  
  
And could he find someone who would give him what he demanded the way John did?

Without asking questions, without patronising him, trying to fix him?  
  


Sherlock did not want to be fixed, as much as John didn't want someone to tell him what to do with his life and the choices he made.

The little choices that he actually could still make...  
  


Sherlock knew he was broken.

So did John.

And together they existed, neither of them commenting on each other's past or how they might feel better.

They were content in their present.

What they had was enough.  
  
But was it really?

With John thinking of Sherlock, who was supposed to be just another client, mid-coitus with someone else?  
  


Somehow John felt like he had just cheated both on the man currently napping in his bed and his...well, his special one.

On his own ethics of how a relationship should work and yet he was aware that he didn't even have a relationship with Sherlock.  
  


He sat on the edge of his bathtub and sighed.

Did he want to have a relationship?

With him?  
  


Of all people, Sherlock Holmes was fucked up enough that it could actually work.

John imagined what it would be like to spend more time with the detective.  
  
They already did share meals from time to time, followed by sex.

And some nights they cuddled and talked, even if barely and about nothing in particular.

Nothing private.  
  


Sherlock had probably deduced half of John's life already and John had seen enough scars in his career as a doctor to form a picture of what exactly had happened to his special client in the past.

None of them ever put it into words.

It was an unspoken truth and that was the beauty of it.  
  
No need to bother with phrasing what both of them could hardly bear thinking about.

No need to face another human being and admit how broken you really were.

No need to hide tears or sobs or massive amounts of anger, directed against your tormenter or yourself.  
  
No pressure.  
  
But was it enough?  
  


Scratching the back of his neck, John got to his feet and looked into the mirror on the opposite wall.  
  
What happened?

  
  


* * *

 

As he sat down at his desk on the fifth floor of New Scotland Yard, Sherlock winced, fondly acknowledging the sting it caused to put pressure on his buttocks and he let himself get carried away for a moment on the memory of how hard John had taken him last night.  
  
Taking deep breaths, he concentrated on John's voice, how he could still hear him inside of his head-feel him.

Panting, huffing, sweaty skin rubbing against his, moaning.

The texture of his lips against his most sensitive areas.

The tickle of his hair as he went down on him.  
  


It soothed him.

Always did.

Whenever those idiots at work wound him up, when something or someone triggered a flashback and he found himself drowning in the choking memory of a long past feeling.

A physical sensation acquired by force and without consent.

A ghost haunting him, lurking behind every corner and every aspect of life.  
  


Sometimes, he found himself crouching against a wall in a side street, panting and coming back to reality only by degrees.  
  
It had become better ever since he knew John.

Their regular 'meetings' left him with precious memories of sex. Positive ones.

Physical strain, sweat-inducing labour linked to gratifying orgasms.

Good memories chasing away bad ones.

Replacing them.  
  


And time after time Sherlock found himself coping better, more quickly whenever it overwhelmed him.  
  
The stares of the other yarders when he stormed into his office as he had done just now, sometimes hiding away in the loo so that he could actually lock the door.

Bring a solid barrier between himself and the world outside.

Crouching on the closed lid of the toilet and concentrating on his breathing.  
  


Learning to do so on his own, had taken a long time.

And no matter how often his brother had suggested he have therapy, he panicked at the sheer thought of telling anyone what had happened.  
  
Mycroft knew only as much as he needed, as he had deduced himself.

He was regrettably even more perceptive than Sherlock and there had been no chance at all at hiding his injuries back then. 

No matter how hard Sherlock had tried to put on a cheery face and excuse himself to spent his time locked up in his room under the cover of studying until he could walk or sit normally again, hoping his brother would buy this story and it go unnoticed.  
  
Of course the bastard observed more than he should.

But Sherlock couldn't exactly blame him for being concerned.

Had their roles been reversed, Sherlock would probably spent his time in jail for torturing and killing the bastard that had inflicted these wounds on them.  
  
A faint knock on the door chased away the fog of memories that had once again begun to cloud Sherlock's mind and a moment later Greg's head popped into his office through the barely opened door.  
  


_'Care to join me? Alone?'_

He asked with a faint smile.  
  
Greg was no idiot.

He knew his partner hid something, something dark and big.

He hadn't been all too happy when Sherlock had been transferred to his department about eight months ago.

The general opinion of the new man quickly had changed from 'prodigy' to 'absolute nutter', 'crazy, arrogant bastard' and 'homophobic chauvinist', though Greg had no idea where the last one actually rooted from.  
  
Initially, DI Lestrade had been reluctant to go with Sherlock's 'hunches', but the moment the other man had deduced half his life story _AND_ the case he was currently working on from only the crime scene pictures tacked to his pin board in his office, within the first five minutes of their acquaintance- he believed.  
  
How he did it, he had no idea.

Well actually he did.

The conclusions Sherlock could draw from the scratch marks on a mobile phone or the way your shoe laces were tied were always absolutely logical and Greg asked himself why he himself didn't see those things.

That was, when Sherlock bothered to explain how he had come to his conclusions.

Most of the time though, he was too impatient or otherwise occupied to bother.

Which led him here once more.  
  


_'Only you?'_

Sherlock asked hesitantly, rubbing his eyes, as if he had been asleep and just woken up.  
  


_'Well, the others will only slow us down with their pointless objections to the way you work.'_   
  


_'-we work.'_

Sherlock corrected him.  
  


_'Sorry?'_   
  


_'We are partners as I understand it, so we work together.'_

Sherlock explained.

 

_'Okay. I agree. So, the child got onto the balcony, despite the door being locked and climbed over the railing to fall down sixteen floors.'_

Greg shivered at the imagery of the crime scene.  
  


_'Yes. So far so tragically obvious. How could he get onto the balcony in the first place? The mother says the door had been locked for months, every since the child was able to walk and climb on top of the furniture.'_   
  


_'How did he unlock the door then?'_

The DI asked.  
  


_'That, my dear Gregory, is the crucial question.'_

Sherlock said with a predatory grin.  
  


A chime disturbed the silence in the office as Greg studied Sherlock's whiteboard, where crimes scene photos and reports were attached with magnets. Magnets the shape of internal organs.  
  
As Sherlock almost jumped out of his seat to get to his phone, the older man didn't miss the slight wince his partner made at the movement.  
  


_'You should warm up.'_

He said, chuckling, thinking Sherlock had aquired some sort of sports injury.

Whatever sport the posh git was doing.

If he could be arsed to do any of it at all.  
  


_'Hm?'_

Sherlock muttered as means of an answer, eyes fixed on the screen of his phone, only tilting his chin towards Greg.  
  


_'To avoid the muscle ache. Warming up helps.'_   
  


Sherlock seemed to ignore him, utterly distracted by whatever message he had received.  
  
When the detective finally put the device away again, after rapidly typing a reply, Greg pointed to the witness report the sister of the victim had given.  
  


* * *

  
  
CARE TO HAVE DINNER?  
I'M DOING LASAGNA AND IT WOULD BE A SHAME TO EAT IT ALONE WITH THE DOG.  
-JOHN

  
  
I'LL BE THERE AT SEVEN-ISH.  
UNLESS I KILL SOMEONE.  
LOOKING FWD.  
-S.  
  



	5. A Change of Dynamics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things change.  
> Some for the better...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be in London for the next two weeks, so no updates, sorry.
> 
> If you happen to be in London as well, send me a tweet! Coffee and a nice chat are always welcome :)

 

 

 

As Sherlock arrived in Praed Street half an hour late, he was tired, annoyed and felt drained from going over the same evidence again and again with no new developments.  
  
He snipped the butt of his cigarette into the gutter at the curb and took the two steps to John's front door.  
  
An ordinary flat in north-western London, but behind these walls one of the most extraordinary businesses was executed with nobody suspecting. 

The place where a former soldier struggled with clear signs of PTSD by filling his mind and his hours with meaningless sex.  
  
The very place Sherlock Holmes considered something of a home, a sanctuary for the hours when he couldn't stand to be alone, needed John's unjudgmental presence, his touches, his voice.

The most outstanding man Sherlock Holmes knew and he lived and cooked in this very moment and had invited him.  
  


As he pressed his finger to the doorbell, his stomach twisted in an unfamiliar way.  
  
Anticipation.

Nerves.  
  


_You coward._   
  


Sherlock berated himself.  
  


_We've done this before._   
  


As the door opened, John stood, a smear of flour across his trouser leg and smiled up at Sherlock.  
  
A cloud of aroma engulfed him- the food- but also sweat, a sheen layer of it glistening on John's neck, ready to be licked off by Sherlock's tongue.  
  
The detective gave himself a mental slap across the face.  
  


_Later._

_This is the time._   
  


 

_'Bit late, are you?'_

John said teasingly, stepping forward and placing a sweet welcome kiss to Sherlock's cheek.  
  


 

_'The work.'_   
  


 

_'I know. It's good it took you a bit longer, though._

_Gave me time to prep dessert...'_  
  
He turned and walked into his flat, knowing Sherlock would follow on his heel and close the door for him.

 

_'So, anything interesting?'_

John asked, as he went back to mixing some kind of batter.  
  


The flat already smelled deliciously of tomato sauce, beef ragout and red wine.  
  


 

_'A child fell off the balcony and died. The mother claims the door was locked at all times. I have my doubts.'_

Sherlock dug his finger into the bowl with the batter and then licked the sweet substance off, holding eye contact with John.  
  


 

_'Why's that?'_

John asked and dug his own finger in, offering it to Sherlock.

The other man opened his mouth and lapped at it with his tongue.  
  


 

_'The story has its faulty bits. I still cannot put my finger on it, but there is more to it than just an accidental death. It was murder.'_

He sucked John's finger into his mouth and let his eyelids drop.  
  


 

_'Who would murder a child?'_

John asked, continuing to stir ingredients into the batter with one hand, the other being occupied by Sherlock's lips.  
  


 

_'There are several suspects, but nothing gives me a clear picture, yet. I'll get to it eventually.'_   
  


 

_'Of course.'_

John mumbled and tugged his hand from Sherlock's grip.  
  


 

_'Delightful to know that at least one man has faith in me.'_

The detective murmured and inspected the items on John's kitchen counter with interest.

Courgettes, pears, grapes, carrots. Interesting.  
  


A sigh made him look up to see John standing opposite him, his hands on his hips, looking at him accusingly.  
  


 

_'What have they done this time?'_

John glared.

Not at Sherlock.

At his kitchen knife.  
  


 

_'Called me a diva. A freak. Doubted my abilities to feel sympathy, or feel in general._

_I was somehow expecting a 'kick me'-sign on my back or something of that sort, but they haven't found the courage for that, yet._

_Or they are scared to touch me.'_

He delivered this with an annoyed roll of his eyes, but John knew him better than to miss the hurt behind those gorgeous tri-coloured irises.  
  


He stepped around the counter to where Sherlock was perched on a bar stool and cradled his face with his hands.  
  


 

_'What fools they are._

_I'd never let a chance pass to touch you if I were around you all day.'_   
  


 

_'Would you not?'_

Sherlock looked at him, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape, releasing his breath slowly. The tension between them almost palpable.  
  


 

_'Never.'_

John whispered, leaning in to kiss the other man.  
  


 

The first touch of their lips was always the best.

Lacking intensity, but holding the promise of so much more, making it almost unbearable for both of them to hold their true emotions concealed within themselves.  
  
John's lips on his own was all Sherlock could think of.

Dragging across his mouth with light suction, the chastest of carresses, as if he might do damage if he did more.

And yet, he had used this very mouth to bite at Sherlock's skin, bruise him and mark him as his.

Claim him and leave a memento for the other man, that indeed there was one man who had faith in him.  
  
Sherlock parted his lips, moaning, a tight feeling in his chest he didn't dare to put a name to.  
  


_**John** _   
  


He was all that mattered.

But how could he tell him so without ruining what they had?  
  


He sighed audibly and John took it as a sound of his pleasure.

His tongue brushed over Sherlock's bottom lip once more before it sneaked in, past teeth to find a friend confined within Sherlock's heated mouth.

They danced, met, parted, the tips dipping against each other until both men drew back for breath.  
  


John stared at Sherlock, the other man looking dazed, eyes fixed somewhere on John's chest.  
  


 

_'I'll finish dessert and then we're ready to eat.'_

He said gently, not daring to touch Sherlock now, for he knew that look on his face all too well.

 

The other man was currently overwhelmed with emotion, unable to respond.

What emotions exactly, John did not know and he did not ask.

He knew best how it felt to be so utterly ruled by your own feelings, held in place, barely remembering to breathe.

For him it was panic.

The one thing that had become second nature to him after finally leaving the hospital, stepping onto a crowded London street for the first time.

Every street sound, every voice triggering feelings of fear, making him duck and hide in side streets or pressing himself to walls and shelves of shops looking for cover.  
  


Once you enter a warzone, you never leave it.

You may leave the country and the imminent danger and destruction behind, bringing hundreds or thousands of miles between you and the land of your nightmares, but it haunts you.

It hunts you down and finds you, again and again for the rest of your days.  
  


Once you enter a warzone, you give up peace forever.  
  


 

As John tried to shake off memories of his own demons, Sherlock suddenly stood next to him, a hand on his lower back, chin resting on John's shoulder.  
  


_'I'm famished, John.'_

He purred, having found his balance of emotions again.  
  


 

_'Alright. You can pick up that bottle of wine over there and two glasses.'_   
  


 

_'As you wish.'_

Sherlock murmured against the skin of John's neck, lips brushing chastely and then with a swift turn on his heels he reached for the items and carried them to the dining table.  
  


Armed with two tea towels John extracted the lasagna from the oven and made his way to the table, too.  
  
They sat and filled their plates in silence.

Once Sherlock tasted the first forkful of his favourite food John had cooked, he sighed contentedly.  
  


_'Good?'_   
  


 

_'Divine, John.'_

He purred and looked at him as if he meant to devour him.

Which he did, in a way.  
  


 

_'I was a little anxious to...to get the flavours right._

_I know you like-'_   
  


 

_'It's perfect, John. Stop doubting yourself.'_

Sherlock reached over the table and brushed his thumb over John's fist that he had clenched without meaning to.  
  


 

_'Says the man whose even more unstable than I am.'_

The words were out before John could hold them back.

He swallowed guiltily, looking much like a deer caught in light and opened his mouth to apologise.  
  


 

_'No. Don't._

_You are perfectly right and there's no need to be sorry._

_You know how much I hate pity.'_  
  
Sherlock avoided his eyes and concentrated on his food instead. It truly was delicious.  
  


 

_'Right. I...'_   
  


 

_'No need for conversation, John._

_It's okay._

_I know who I am._

_And you are right._

_I am more unstable than you._

_The amount of self-control you have is admirable._

_I envy you sometimes, you know.'_   
  


 

_'I wouldn't say I am much self-controlled at all._

_I am a whore, Sherlock, because I have no other choices left._

_What amount of control exactly do I have over my life?_

_Myself?_

_What do you think?'_   
  


He said it with a certain bitterness that Sherlock was well aware of.

John had episodes of depression, as was natural when suffering from trauma.

Yet he fought his way out of them eventually with a strength Sherlock found admirable.  
  


 

_'You have the control to let strangers into your home and offer yourself to them, to put yourself into the most vulnerable position one can possibly be in and yet you do not murder every single one of your clients in a fit of rage or fear induced by your trauma._

_That, my friend, is some massive amount of self-control to me- and bravery.'_   
  


John stared at Sherlock across the table. 

He'd hit a nerve, then.

 

**_Good._ **   
  


Sherlock thought and put his cutlery down.  
  


 

_'You...you are...'_   
  


 

_'A right bastard, I know._

_But I do know something about handling trauma._

_And you, Sir, despite having a questionable and risky job are handling it remarkably well.'_  
  
He picked up his fork again and dug it into the lasagna.  
  


 

_'So do you.'_

John answered and concentrated on his food as well.

The peak of tension slowly ebbing away.

The sting fading.  
  


 

_'Me?'_

Sherlock burst out, disbelievingly.

 _'I am the one who pays a relative stranger to get myself violently fucked on a regular basis as an outlet for my frustration and self-loathing, because I have no one else in my life that I would possibly allow to get that close without finding myself clutched in the possessive hands of...'_  
  
He trailed off, his gaze weary- lost inside a memory for a moment before he pulled himself out of it with a little shake of his curly head and continued.  
  


_'John, I am content with this arrangement, very much so, and I am very happy you grant me this-'_

He gestured around, at the flat, the dinner, the easy way they spent time together.  
  
 _'-you have no idea how much I need this.'_

The 'you' hung on his lips but he bit it back in time.  
  


John heard it all the same.

 

_'I am more than happy to share this with you, Sherlock.'_

He replied, looking the other man straight in the eyes.  
  


 _'Yes, which leads me to my point- John, you want to change the dynamics of our arrangement.'_  
  
This sudden declaration took John by surprise.

He thought he had handled it rather well.

Not being too obvious about how much he enjoyed this.

More than he should if it was only another 'appointment with a client'.  
He searched his mind for something to say.

Something that would steer the conversation to a different topic, away from this dangerous path of emotion once again.  
  


He failed.

Because Sherlock was right.

He was self-controlled, he was brave, very much so.

He should face this now and get over the uncomfortable conversation that might lead to a more serious relationship between them or ruin their arrangement altogether.

He licked his lips.  
  


 

_'We already have different dynamics than I have with my other clients and you know it.'_   
  


 

_'You don't kiss them goodbye.'_

Sherlock stated.

Fork on the table once more.  
  


 

_'No, I don't.'_

John admitted. But Sherlock already knew, so there was nothing to confess.  
  


 

_'But you do it with me._

_You enjoy it, actually.'_

Sherlock's hands were now resting on the table and he leaned forward, studying John's face with interest.

Looking for clues of his hidden emotions.  
  


 

_'I do...Don't you?'_

John asked, afraid this might go just as horribly wrong as he had feared it could go.  
  
Suddenly, Sherlock looked away, avoided his eyes.

His hands slipped off the table into his lap and he stared at them, feeling uncomfortable.  
  


 

_'I...John._

_What we have...it's perfect, I do not want to ruin this.'_

He looked up again. Emphasizing that last bit.  
  


 

_'That doesn't have to happen.'_

John tried to persuade him.  
  


 

_'But...I will..._

_What do you want me to do?_

_John, I don't..._

_I have no...'_

Sherlock was desperately trying to find words now, words that would describe his fears, his doubts in himself and in his ability to please and satisfy another person without eventually driving them to hate him.

 

But John didn't need to hear that.

He could see.

He knew Sherlock had massive trust issues, which was understandable, and he also knew how afraid the other man must be of the idea of a relationship and the forthcoming intimacy.  
  


 

_'Tell me what you want from me, Sherlock._

_Is this more than just sex for you?'_   
  


 

Sherlock fixated John with his eyes, taking a deep breath to steel himself for his answer.

Now or never.

  
_'Yes.'_

Voice low.

Almost a whisper, but determined.  
  


 

_'Tell me.'_   
  


 

Sherlock drew another breath.

Searching his mind for words- words that could describe all this- the things trapped inside of his chest.  
  


_'You are the only person I trust apart from my partner at work or my brother._

_On the former I depend with my life and trust him to shoot when necessary and on the latter I depend with an inherited trust that I simply know he will never breach._

_You are the only person I choose to trust, the only one I consider a friend, if I am capable of forming such bonds at all._

_I feel safe around you, which is the most important thing to me._

_You don't ask and you don't judge.'_   
  


 

_'So do you.'_

John interjected once more.

And it was true.

Sherlock hadn't once looked upon John as a prostitute, someone pleasing a customer and selling his body willingly.

He knew there was more to it, knew what it was, but he didn't push John to tell him.  
  


 

_'I need you. Physically and mentally. You stimulate me in ways I cannot properly comprehend, apart from...well._

_Sometimes I just need to feel your presence, know you are there and well. Because you give me the reassurance that I haven't turned completely insane yet.'_   
  


 

_'There's room to argue...'_

John said with a smile.

Less anxious now, hearing the confessions of his special 'client'.

No- his special 'one'.

John was sure that their business relations were now over.

Turned into something more.

And if it was merely friends with benefits now, that was already more than John could have wished for.

 

Sherlock let out a booming laugh.

Throwing his head back and resting his arm on the back of the chair next to him.

After a few moments he calmed himself and licked his lips, meaning to go on.  
  


_'John, you make me smile. No one has managed to do that in a very, very long time. Everyone else is just so infuriatingly dull and boring and annoying. But not you.'_

He reached over the table once again, clasping John's fingers in his own.  
  


 

_'Not me.'_

John said and gazed at their entwined hands.

Stunned.  
  



	6. In earnest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY!  
> Medical stuff had to be sorted out- that is why this is short, but I got the next chapter already written out, I just have to re-read it a few times to check if it feels right.
> 
> And in a weeks time, when I'm post-op, I'll have more time to write! YES!

 

 

 

I am waiting.

I am waiting for you to answer.

To look up at me.

To tell me how you want to proceed.  
  


This is me.

Giving you the torn and weathered shreds of my heart and what's left of my crippled trust into your care.  
  


Treat them gently I beg, and I know you will.

I don't know why.

This is absolutely irrational and goes against every instinct I ever developed.  
  


But I am not afraid. 

Strangely calm in your company, because I know, I just know you'll take care of me.  
  
I don't want to be pampered- hell, I demand of you to hurt me sometimes- just to see if I still feel.

But I know in the end, when we are panting and drenched in each others sweat that you will hold me close.

You will hold me against your chest, our hearts equally beating in a frantic tattoo, never enough, not ever close enough- and I will feel like you are the one thing, the one person that can actually make me feel whole again.  
  


 

Sometimes I sway and feel like I am drifting apart at the seams like a sail being devoured by the ocean after the shipwreck has already sunk- lost.

I have no control.

And then you are there and you gather me up and show me once more that I might be battered by wind and water, salt still stinging in my wounds, my scars, but that I am still whole.

The integrity of my core has remained untouched.

And that it's enough for you. 

I am. 

The man I am today.  
  


My inner daemon lashes out sometimes, tears at my selfcontrol, but the balance is kept right by your voice and your kiss and your every touch as the antidote.  
  


I give myself to you again and again and not just physically.

You must be aware that I am utterly devoted to your love and your approval is the most valuable instance in my life.

Your smiles are my fuel, your kisses the coal steam running through my heart.

Raw and forceful and burning.  
  


I am burning for you.

Like a thousand suns I want to shine upon you and illuminate how wonderful and perfect you are to me.  
  


Don't ever stop being John Watson.

Because you are utterly perfect in this very second and every single moment yet to come.  
  
To me.

You are my soldier.

Conquered my heart and now keeping it safe.  
  
I do not mean to be your damsel in distress but if you want me to, if the soldier in you wants to see me that way- John Watson, I am prepared and willing to swoon for you any time.

 

Yours in earnest-  
  
Sherlock


	7. All or Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'It's the time of my life, Sherlock.  
> And it took me a while to realise that.  
> And now I feel like I am breaking the rules, but I cannot help it. '

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys! This one really gave me a headache. I am a bloody perfectionist, so I don't post until it feels right and I haven't had the time or nerve to review it repeatedly. I have no idea if this is cheesy or progressing too fast but after my other fic where I dragged it out for sooooo long I wanted to settle things more quickly between the boys and concentrate more on their surroundings and plot. And sex. But that is giving me a headache again. (haha, pun intended).   
> Anyway, I currently have 28 medical staples in my back so the mood doesn't really arise to write porn yet, sorry.
> 
> But I promise I'm working on it so bless you all for waiting (hopefully) ;)

 

 

 _I do not mean to be your damsel in distress but if you want me to, if the soldier in you wants to see me that way- John Watson, I am prepared and willing to swoon for you any time._  
  
 _Yours in earnest-_  
  
 _Sherlock_  
  
  
  
Those were the thoughts that crossed the detective's mind as John stared at their entwined fingers resting on the table.  
  


_'I know that this is...'_

Sherlock began.

 

  
_'Yeah.'_

Was all John replied, still overwhelmed apparently.  
  


 

_'It doesn't have to change, John._

_If you need...'_   
  


 

_'No. No, it's all or nothing now, Sherlock._

_I have blown this bomb and now this is our turning point, you see that, don't you?_

_This is where we change._

_Believe me, I didn't plan this, I never meant to ruin this, but-'_   
  


 

_'Shut up.'_

Sherlock interrupted, giving him a look- like he meant to say: 'Don't be silly, John.'

Instead he said:  
  
 _'This is not something you should regret._

_I certainly don't._

_Our initial parameters were adequate for two strangers who aren't involved._

_One man seeking release and one providing._

_Nothing more._

_But it isn't like that anymore, is it?_

_We have both grown to...care about each other._

_And now we have to face the consequences.'_   
  


 

_'Yes.'_

John replied, not looking at Sherlock.

Ashamed that he was the one forcing things to change.

Setting things in motion.

And possibly ruining it all.  
  


_'I want this._

_I don't think I can bear to never see you again.'_

John said, sitting up straight in his chair.

Speaking with a confidence he had a hard time keeping upright.  
  


 

_'Then don't think about it.'_

The detective replied and looked him straight in the eye.  
  


What did that mean?

That Sherlock meant to stay?

That he wasn't upset that John wanted to change their arrangement?

That he now considered himself more than a client and was fine with that?  
  


 

_'I think it is safe to admit that we have grown to be friends, haven't we?'_

John asked.

Testing the waters.  
  


 

_'Yes, I'd say so._

_Although I'm fairly sure friends don't usually fuck._

_Not like we do.'_   
  


 

_'True._

_So what does that make us?'_

John couldn't bear to look at his face when he answered.

He concentrated on his hands.  
  


 

_'I have no idea, John._

_I'm not exactly an expert._

_Not in that area.'_

 

_'Neither am I.'_   
  


 

_'But you have at least had...'_

A raised eyebrow implied Sherlock wanted to know whether John had much experience with relationships.

They had never talked about it, obviously.  
  


 

_'Not really successfully._

_I always ruined it, because my heart was never in it._

_I have a hard time trusting people._

_Well, **you** can tell...'_   
  


 

_'I know._

_But where is your heart now?'_

The echo of that question rang in the air like a gunshot.   
  


 

Dangerous. 

Very dangerous territory, Watson.  
  


He thought about what he should say.

What would keep Sherlock here and let them continue to be friends.

But then he thought about what he truly wanted to say.

And that it was no use keeping Sherlock around under false impressions.  
  


 

Say it.  
  


 

_'My heart is sitting right here on the table, with us._

_Between us._

_Our hands are both hovering over it, ready to snatch it...'_   
  


 

Sherlock stared at the table.

Where John's heart was metaphorically resting, stood a tray of lasagna.

Lasagna John had cooked for Sherlock.

Just the way he liked it.

John had made an effort to impress him.

To suit him.

John had spent hours in his kitchen preparing this with care, anxious he might get it wrong.

Longing for Sherlock to come around, spend time with him.  
  


And he got it all right.

It was perfect.  
  


 

_'This is the most delicious lasagna I have ever had.'_

Sherlock blurted out somewhat stupidly.

Then he looked up at John, confused.

Trying to make sense of his own words.  
  


_'You put your heart into it.'_

He said it as a matter of fact only a second later.

This was more than just a meal.

It had been a confession all along.  
  


 

John didn't know how to reply, just returned Sherlock's stare.  
  


 

_'You made this to please me._

_To make me happy.'_   
  


 

_'Of course I did.'_

John said, as if there was any other reason.

He frowned at the tray on the table.  
  


 

_'So...'_

Sherlock looked around, as if the words were written out on the walls.

_'So you just served your heart to me on a platter._

_Is that right?_

_And I took it._

_It's inside of me now.'_   
  


 

John swallowed.  
  


 

_'It's a part of me now, you could say.'_

Sherlock said, looking John in the eye and a faint smirk twisted his lips.  
  


The other man looked at him, stunned.

Caught like a deer in the light again.  
  


 

_'I took it._

_The food._

_And I love it._

_I told you.'_   
  


 

Was this a declaration?  
  
Could this be?  
  
When John replied, his voice was thin, shaky even and he swallowed hard, knowing that this was dangerous territory to discuss with anyone, let alone Sherlock, who usually was not at all the man to make great declarations even in the heat of the moment.  
  
Except he had done so just now.

Hadn't he?  
  


So could this be?

Could this actually work?  
  


Sherlock was the most reserved man John had ever met, only ever sparks, tiny glimpses of emotion coming to the surface if he allowed it, as if he deliberately decided then and there to give in to an urge, couldn't stand to hold it in any more.  
  
But now he was open.

As if he wanted John, allowed him to take a closer look and see what was really inside of him.  
  


It was cards on the table now.

There was no way John could retreat from this.  
  


 

So tell him what's the deal.

Only that is fair.  
  


 

_'You agree with me that it's all or nothing?_

_My idea of a relationship and my definition of love, Sherlock-'_   
  


 

Sherlock withdrew his hand and stood and a lump of ice settled deep in John's stomach, his worst fear coming to life in front of his eyes.

He had said the words 'relationship' and even 'love' in the same sentence.

Within the same breath.

The most damning and scary words for people like them.

People who have been hurt.

People who had their trust broken beyond repair.  
  


 

_'I...'_

Sherlock began.

_'John, I...'_

He stopped again.  
  


 

_'Okay.'_

John more or less whispered and nodded in defeat.

With his head sunk he meant to get up and see Sherlock out, because this was it, wasn't it?

Sherlock wasn't ready for this.

John had got it all wrong and Sherlock was so spooked by the idea of...them.

Together.  
  


And maybe he wasn't ready himself.

All those doubts coming to the surface again.

All those lovers shouting at him, kicking him out, calling him useless and dysfunctional.  
  


 

**...Don't call me again. Ever...**

**...Piss off...**

**...You're sick...**   
  


 

But then two big hands grabbed John's biceps and spun him out of his chair, making him face the detective.  
  


_'You don't understand, John!'_

Sherlock chewed on his bottom lip.

Trying to find words.

Uncertain.

Insecure.

  
_'How can I...?_

_I need to make you see...'_   
  


 

_'See what?_

_That it scares you?_

_It scares me just as much, Sherlock._

_Believe me.'_   
  


 

_'It is 'all' for me!_

_Very much so._

_I hate it and I love it._

_I feel vulnerable and strong at the same time._

_I know I don't appear to be a very emotional man, but John, this- this is the best thing that has ever happened to me.'_

 

The look in his eyes turning tender- so tender.

The grip on John's biceps decreasing.  
  


_'John, this is not easy for me..._

_I struggle to put the things inside of my head into words._

_Now more so than ever.'_

 

He heaved a sigh.

As if the weight of his own thoughts was too much to bear.

He was anxious.

This was important.

So important.  
  


 

Tell him now.

For god's sake, find the balls to tell this one person, this one man you can trust, this one time- how much you need him.  
  


 

_'You know just as well as me that I haven't got a clue how to handle this._

_How to deal with...'_

His voice died away in a surpressed sob.  
  


 

Truth.

A confession to begin with.  
  


 

The sincerity and longing in Sherlock's eyes wrenched John's heart and he frowned at all the cruelties it had taken for them to endeavour to reach this point.

How they had to be crippled in order to find each other so they could fix one another.  
  


_'Sherlock, this is never easy._

_Not for you and not for me._

_I don't...'_

And here John struggled for words himself.

Awkwardly looking down at his feet, as if he might find some there.  
  


 

_'I have never been in love John, so I don't know..._

_I have never felt this way before and I feel childish that I have such difficulties grasping this-'_

He pulled at his hair with one hand.

Almost desperate.  
  


_'-what is this feeling?_

_How can I be drawn to you and at the same time want to run?_

_But then the image of me running away from you is..._

_John, ever since I...started to care about you I feel like I finally get a grip on my life, if only by tiny degrees._

_I am almost hopeful that I could be...happy._

_But I'm scared._

_I'm so very scared of it all._

_I don't want...not again.'_  
  
The desperation and fear in Sherlock's voice, mirrored in his eyes and the tight grip on his arms tore John's heart to shreds.  
  


 

_'Sherlock...'_   
  


 

_'I don't know if I'll make a good partner at all-'_

Sherlock put his hand on John's cheek to underline his words.  
  


_'-and I never dreamt of ever wanting this, but I cannot imagine- being without you._

_And I cannot imagine anyone I'd rather want to try this with.'_

He leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over John's face.

Resting his forehead against John's.  
  


_'You can imagine..._

_I have been alone for so long now that I don't know how to...share my life with someone._

_The everyday, the normal, the sad, the angry hours._

_I need time for myself, I need time to think._

_You'll have to accept that and be patient with me, John and it will take time to adjust, but believe me when I say this, please!_

_I don't want to walk out of this door alone anymore._

_I don't want a kiss goodbye and then feel as if I leave my heart behind me, the thing that makes me most happy._

_And knowing that someone else will intrude this space and use you and have a piece of you that feels like it rightfully belongs to me...and I'm confused because I don't know if this is any good or normal or what you'll think of me now, but this is how it feels for me and I don't want to leave this house and you behind anymore._

_It makes me feel cold and miserable again.'_   
  


 

As his sudden flow of words came to a halt, he looked away, almost ashamed.

These and the next words were hard to say.

Hard to admit.

But he had to get it out.

This was his one chance.

 

Ruin it and run.

Or win.

For once.  
  


_'Without you there-_

_I feel...empty.'_   
  


And now Sherlock really was on the brink of crying, barely able to contain himself.

He had never spoken so openly to anyone- not his parents, his brother, his therapist, not to himself in his darkest hours- but this was John.

John was here.

John didn't look patronising or angry.

John didn't laugh.

John looked...knowing.

He knew what Sherlock was talking about.

He could relate.

And he knew him.

He was the one person who truly knew Sherlock and who he really was- without asking.

Instant connection.

Instant trust.  
  


_'You have done something to me that I never thought possible- you make me want to be myself._

_You make me comfortable in my own skin once again and obviously you make me talk like a girl about my...feelings.'_

He chuckled, although a tear escaped his eye.

Then he stepped even closer.   
  


 

John huffed out a breath, the tension of the situation sizzling like static between them.

The soldier in him braced himself for the moment it would snap.

Break.

Ignite.

Stunned into silence.  
  


 

_'All I want to do when I think of you is to please you._

_To make you happy and proud._

_You make me want to put lots of those adorable smiles onto your face and kiss away the frowns._

_I want to be the face and caressing hand you wake up to in the morning and the one person that drives you mad sometimes- and believe me, I will- but hopefully both will result in sex, because I just crave to have sex with you all the time, John.'_   
  


 

At this, John burst out laughing.  
  


 

_'I want to be there for you whenever you need me, just as you have been there for me all those times._

_I want to be the man you can rely on and the one you trust the most._

_I want to be the one that covers your back in the battlefield.'_   
  


 

_'Sherlock...'_

John whispered once more, throat tight.

All those words directed towards him.

About him.

Making him feel dizzy with the implication that he could affect another human being so much.

That he could mean so much to someone else.

Induce such feelings.

It was so hard to believe and yet he felt the very same way.  
  


 

_'Stop talking, Sherlock.'_

He said and slung his arms around the taller man's waist, shoving him against his chest.

Needing to feel him.

Show Sherlock with his body what he felt in return if his words failed to do so.  
  


_'I know exactly how you feel, don't you see?_

_I know what you are trying to tell me because to me it feels the bloody same._

_Every time you walk out that door I feel terrible, I never want to let you go._

_I want to run after you and stay with you- sod this job, I feel dirtier now than I ever did before, because I feel like I am betraying you._

_But to be honest, Sherlock, I thought you enjoyed the discretion, the distance, the relative anonymity of my...services._

_I didn't think you wanted any of this._

_What happened to you...'_   
  


 

Sherlock winced.

John cradled his head to ground him.  
  


 

_'If ever you feel ready to tell me- Sherlock, I am here._

_But you don't have to if you don't want._

_I don't need to know the details, but I've got eyes of my own and I'm a doctor and you know that.'_   
  


 

Sherlock avoided his eyes.  
  


 

_'And that's why I could absolutely understand if you didn't want any of the emotional package- you already have to carry so much...'_   
  


 

_'So do you.'_

Sherlock whispered through gritted teeth.  
  


 

_'I know._

_And I thought I would be too terrified to ever trust anyone to such a degree again._

_If I offered myself in that way._

_Sex is one thing- it's my body, I know how to defend it- but this is my heart._

_My mind.'_

He peeled Sherlock's hand off his bicep and placed it onto his chest.  
  


_'And being with you isn't terrifying at all._

_Not in the least._

_It's the time of my life, Sherlock._

_And it took me a while to realise that._

_And now I feel like I am breaking the rules, but I cannot help it._

_You mean too much to me._

_I don't...I don't want to lie- I want more of you._

_All of you._

_All that you are ready to give.'_   
  


 

Sherlock twitched.

Surprised.

Tension creeping into his shoulders and he looked so lost.

Like he thought John was mad for caring so much.

About him of all people.  
  


 

_'I feel safe around you._

_At ease._

_I don't feel the urge to look over my shoulder._

_Check for cover._

_Be braced to defend myself._

_I can finally let go whenever I'm with you and once I realised that, it was too late._

_I have fallen for you, Sherlock._

_I want you next to me in bed- when we fuck and when I sleep. I want to sit with you in silence and just read the paper, knowing you are there._

_Within my reach._

_I want to shave and shower together like we already do but for it not to feel like an exception but like our privilege.'_   
  


He smiled up at the detective, eyes so bright, making him look so young, so innocent, as if he had never learned the terrors and sorrows of life.  
  


Sherlock stared back at him, understanding, hanging onto those lips that spoke right from his own heart.

Words he could have never thought of himself, but describing his feelings so well.  
  


 

_'There will be ups and downs, Sherlock._

_We both know what they feel like, but I think together we can cope with them and pull through._

_Don't you think?'_   
  


 

_'I do._

_I think we are both too used to the downs, so that shouldn't be much of a problem.'_

He grumbled, hand firmly pressed to John's chest.

As if he tried to reach his heart now, touch it.

Cover it.

Cradle it.  
  


 

Mine.

My John.  
  


 

He had finally found the place where he belonged.  
  


 

_'Relationship is a terrifying word, I know, but we have made it this far- don't you think we are up for all of it?'_

John asked, his hand covering Sherlock's now.  
  


 

_'I don't know anything about love but I know how much I want this, I need this, John._

_I need you.'_

Sherlock whispered.  
  


 

_'And I will be right here when you need me._

_You don't have to go through all of this alone anymore.'_

John bit his lip and waited.  
  


 

_'Copy that, Captain._

_I'm right behind you.'_

Sherlock whispered and an adorable smile spread across his face.  
  
 _'Now can I have a taste of your delicious lips, John?'_

He said with a mischievous glint in his eye.  
  


 

_'Oh yes, you may please.'_

John gasped and leaned in.


	8. More Of Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sweetest moment is the moment you pull apart.  
> When for a second it feels as if your lips don't want to let go, your mouth wants to linger and the friction, so slight, yet almost unbearable in its intensity.

 

 

 

The gentleness with which they kissed spoke volumes of their now unconcealed feelings for one another.

What used to start off quickly and soon morphed into hungry kisses, biting of lips and wet tongues, now seemed as if someone had removed all urges, all impatience in order to savour this, cherish it.

Indulge in every second of it.

They stood, the steaming tray of food forgotten and embraced each other, arms wound tightly and not an inch of space seperating their bodies from knees to mouth.

Sherlock's soft, moist lips touched John's ever so lightly, as if he was afraid all of a sudden that he might break him.

And John met him with equal tenderness.

The barest of contact that send their every nerve ending on fire.

 

The sweetest moment is the moment you pull apart.

When for a second it feels as if your lips don't want to let go, your mouth wants to linger and the friction, so slight, yet almost unbearable in its intensity.

When lips are yet still on lips- connected by the mere pull of the atoms they consist of on their most basic level.

Electrons drawn to protons, a perfect fit, a perfect completion, you and me.

Mingled.

By the drag of energy that connects us.

Draws us together.

 

The fraction of the moment when they were finally separated, their hearts beating frantically and that urge, that urge to go back, dip in and feel was so overwhelming, so intense it knocked all air out of them and they felt like they were drowing in each other.

Losing themselves in this bliss, this rush of adrenaline and hormones, seconds, minutes ticking by unnoticed.

 

There is no concept of time when you are lost on an elemantary level.

Time and space narrow down into non-existence to this pinpoint concept of YOU.

 

_Only you._

_Everything that matters._

_Everything I need._

_Everything I want._

_You._

 

As their hands started roaming over and underneath each others clothing they agreed without words to move to the bedroom.

Not letting go, they navigated blindly, eyes closed, focus narrowed down to friction, more friction, more.

More of John.

More of Sherlock.

More of us.

When they reached the bed, Sherlock's thighs bumping into the mattress, he just let go.

Pulled John with him and on top of him and embraced him like an octopus.

Arms and legs slung around him, pulling him closer, ever closer until John's weight pressed him into the mattress, covered him, grounded him and every inch of his body was aching with the need to feel, to touch, to live this moment.

To share it with John and store it in his mind forever.

To think of it when the dark crept in once again and to light a flame, chasing it away in an instant.

Sherlock's hands pulled at John's shirt- no jumper this evening, surprisingly- and John obliged happily, pulling it over his head, buttons still closed.

As it lay abandoned on the floor beside the bed, trousers, pants and socks soon followed, peeled off each other with as much delicacy as was possible in their rush.

When finally there was no barrier between them any more, hot skin flushed and covered in sweat, they looked at each other.

Mouths agape and lips swollen red, glistening with their mingled saliva and their eyes staring wondrously at what lay exposed in front of them- as if they saw each other for the first time.

And in a way it was the first time.

It was different.

 

John had always been a thorough, sensual partner in bed, delicate and loving in nature, but unleashing the beast as soon as Sherlock demanded it.

Now there was no rush, no pain of mind to be substituted with physical sensation of discomfort.

No self-loathing or hate.

Now there was love and affection and need.

The focus lying on pleasing each other, indulging in each other's bliss and joy and feeling it reflected deep within themselves.

 

_'John...'_

Sherlock gasped as John kissed his way down his neck and to his chest.

 

_'Mmh...'_

Was all he got in return.

 

_'John, I...oh lord._

_I...I want to feel you, John._

_Really feel you.'_

 

John stopped and looked up questioningly.

_'I'm here.'_

 

_'I know.'_

The sweetest smile played around Sherlock's lips.

He looked so smug, happiness radiating off him.

_'Can you show me what it's like?_

_How it's supposed to feel?_

_When...'_

He swallowed audibly, but never breaking eye contact with John.

 

**I trust you.**

He transmitted.

**I trust you to see me like this, to reduce me to this.**

**I trust you.**

**Now show me.**

 

_'When you're in bed with your lover, not just a stranger?'_

John asked, knowing what Sherlock meant to say.

 

This was different from what he was used to.

This was new.

And utterly beautiful.

 

_'Yes._

_Can you show me what it's like when you're...in love?'_

And Sherlock actually blushed.

The most dirty things he had said in this bed, ordered John to fuck him.

Commanded for a raw and bare experience (which John refused), bordering on violent when blood was not an issue, but a welcome sensation blocking out the pain he felt inside.

Now he looked so delicate, almost fragile and John's heart ached and smiled at the same time.

You are mine now.

 

_'I'd love to.'_

John said, reciprocating the smile and caressing Sherlock's left cheek with the back of his fingers.

 

_'I'd love you to, as well.'_

Sherlock smirked and they both giggled at the implication of his reply.

 

Neither of them was ready to say those most important words out loud.

But both of them knew deep down inside that they soon would exchange those vows. That promise.

 

_'Is this normal?_

_Giggling?'_

Sherlock asked, sighing contentedly as John settled on top of him with his full weight.

 

The skin of their stomachs danced together in their supressed laughter.

 

_'It's perfect, Sherlock.'_

 

_'Yes.'_

 

_'This._

_This is how I want you to feel it._

_Slow._

_No rush.'_

 

A languid

_'Mmmh...'_

was all Sherlock replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The porn is in progress so please bear with me.  
> Real life keeps interfering but the surgery went fine, thanks! :)  
> I have never written explicit sex scenes before so I have to find my way as I go along.   
> Learning by doing *cough*.
> 
> I hope I can manage to update soon!


	9. Phalanx troubles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two words:
> 
> Sex.  
> Fluff.

 

 

_'Oh god, John!'_

Sherlock moaned and arched his back into the touch.

John's lips kept suckling on his nipple.

His other hand roaming the sensitive skin over Sherlock's ribs, fingers barely making contact, but leaving a gorgeously tingling sensation in their wake.

His lips came free but his tongue lapped at the soft bud of flesh, prominent and firm on Sherlock's chest and the faint mark of a previous encounter still visible around it.

  
_'John I...'_  
  
But John interrupted him, surging up like a man drowning to seek Sherlock's mouth and cover it, as if he found everything he needed right there within.  
  
Sherlock cradled John's head with both hands and arched his spine once more, pushing up, his hips seeking contact to John's body.

Friction, feeling, skin, more skin.

This was what he needed.

A blanket made of John.

To cover him and keep him safe.

To hide underneath and fall asleep with.

To comfort him and give him reassurance.

To remind him that he was still alive, after all those years and that he was right here with the one person who loved him.

All his character flaws and scars on his body.

They meant nothing to John.

They didn't scare him, made him think lesser of Sherlock.

They drew him closer even, longing to inspect them, find a story behind them, make up a pleasant one and caress each and every single one of them until Sherlock felt almost grateful he had so many.  
  


He pushed up once again and finally John followed suit and lay down on top of him with his full weight once more.  
  
A soft groan of pleasure erupted from both of them and they giggled, again- because giggling was fine in bed with your lover, giggling was nice, giggling led to more endorphins, more natural drugs surging through your body, getting you high on your partners presence, his touch, the feeling of him and making you so addicted, so frighteningly addicted that it overwhelms you sometimes, come to think of it.

How can you become so dependent, so related to another being's life and emotions that you are hurt when he is hurt and you are only happy when he truly is?  
  
How can you chain yourself to another person, as if you cut open your chest, reveal your inner core, the very matter you consist of and trust that they will keep you safe, protect you from others and not hurt you when time and opportunity arise?  
  
Human bonding, Sherlock mused, as John's hand roamed over every inch of his skin, his tongue gliding over the little trail of hair leading downwards from his navel.  
  


 

_'I belong to you...'_

He murmured as John started stroking his thighs.  
  


 

_'Say again?'_

John said, looking up.  
  


 

_'I...'_

Sherlock drew a deep breath.

_'I said I belong to you, John.'_   
  


 

And something inside of John Watson shattered.

The last of his doubts whether he and Sherlock could function as a unit evaporated and a wave of warmth spread in his chest.  
  
 _'And I belong to you, Sherlock.'_   
  


 

They stared at each other intently for a moment until John lowered his head and, without ever breaking eye contact, placed a gentle kiss onto Sherlock's penis.  
  
And just this was enough to make him squirm.

Roll his hips and look at John with a fire in his eyes he had hardly ever shown before.  
  
There were no words that could describe what they felt for one another in this very moment, but when John placed another kiss to Sherlock's glans, warm lips sweetly pressing onto his frenulum, Sherlock made a sound that John would never forget.   
  
It wasn't a sigh, nor was it a whimper.

It was the sound of desperation, want, pleasure and bliss- of a man finally experiencing love and being loved.

A man drowing in the intensity of his lovers mouth caressing his most private parts and giving him pleasure not because he paid him to do it, but because it gave him just as much in return.

Because he wanted it, because he wanted him.

And the concept of being wanted and loved was something completely foreign to Sherlock.  
  


 

_'Oh christ, John.'_  
  
But John didn't respond with words.

He touched the tip of his tongue to Sherlock's reddened tip and licked upwards, enjoying the feeling of this smooth skin, tasting it and breathing in the scent of Sherlock's obvious want.

He mouthed another kiss to the crown of Sherlock's prick and then engulfed him in his mouth with a pleasured sigh as if it were an ice cream cone on a hot summer's day.  
  
A similar sound was not what he heard from Sherlock.

The other man cried out and grabbed the sheets for purchase, his legs twitching and his stomach muscles dancing wildy with his lung's effort to breathe.  
  


_'Holy...'_

He groaned and placed both hands onto John's head.

Not to urge him on but to feel him, hold some part of him.

Ground himself with the feeling of John's hair against his fingertips and reassuring himself that all this was real.  
  
John eased down on Sherlock's hard cock and clamped his lips around him further when he reached the base.

Hollowing his cheeks he moved upwards again and released his lover with a wicked slurp.

Sherlock's penis flopped onto his belly and John chuckled, looking up at his face.  
  
The wondrous stare with which Sherlock observed John's ministrations was utterly endearing.  
  


 

_'We have done this before, you know.'_

John reminded him, smiling.  
  


 

_'It never felt quite like this, John.'_   
  


 

_'Shame.'_

He replied and sucked Sherlock into his mouth again, slowly going down, savouring the taste and feeling of this gorgeous man's most sensitive flesh within him.  
  
Minutes passed, filled with the sound of Sherlock's shameless moaning and John's lips and tongue caressing every inch of his lover's penis.

Glistening with saliva it eased gently in and out of John's mouth and the man couldn't help himself humming in pleasure as he heard Sherlock getting more and more desperate.  
  


 

_'John, I...oh, dear GOD!'_

He exclaimed as John took him in as deep as he could without choking.  
  
 _'Can't...please...'_

  
  
John released him, ending his sweet torture and moving upwards again, covering Sherlock's torso with kisses until he reached his mouth where Sherlock almost bit at his lips, greedy to taste himself within John, one of his most vulnerable parts, the heady scent and taste of salt that covered both of them now, so utterly intoxicating they almost forgot to breathe.  
  
Two men drowning, finding the missing parts of their souls within each other.

Bonding, binding themselves in the marks on their flesh and the sound of their voices.  
  
Words were spoken that none of them could recall later, but it didn't matter in the least.

What they saw in each other's eyes, the sounds that reached their ears was a language by itself, a language every human being understood and yet neither of them had ever really heard or spoken.

Not like this.  
  
As Sherlock cradled John's head once more, carding his fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck, John opened the drawer of his nightstand to retrieve the bottle of lubricant he kept there.  
  
Not letting go of each other's lips, but opening their eyes they communicated, agreed that this is where they were headed.

This was how it was going to end.  
  


 

_You._

_Me._

_As connected as two people can be._

_Me within you._

_And you within me._   
  


 

Staring into each other's eyes they panted and with a nod Sherlock indicated that John was very welcome to start preparing him.

_'No, love.'_

John said with an adorable smile, sitting back on his heels. 

_'You said you want to feel me._

_Really feel me._

_This is how I want it to be._

_This how I want us to blend into each other.'_

He brushed the damp curls away that had fallen onto Sherlock's forehead and placed the bottle of lube into his elegant hand.  
  


 

_'But...we...I haven't...'_

Sherlock stammered.  
  


 

_'That's the point.'_

John soothed him.

_'I trust you._

_And I need you._

_And I know you will never hurt me._

_Or forget this.'_   
  


 

_'Are you sure?'_

Sherlock's voice was a little shaky from the exertion- both physically and mentally.  
  


 

_'It's you, Sherlock._

_No one was ever allowed to do this before._

_Not a single man._

_It was always the other way around._

_Rule number two of my Terms of Agreement._

_But this is you._

_This is your priviledge now, because I...'_

And there he stopped because neither of them was ready for those three words yet.

_'Only you, Sherlock.'_   
  


 

Sherlock's eyes displayed the speed with which his brain was trying to process this.

He blinked several times to ground himself, reassure he hadn't passed out from the activities earlier and a frown of disbelieve and awe formed on his brow.  
  


_'John, you are...that is...'_

He began.  
  


 

_'The most intimate thing I can give you._

_And I want you to have it._

_I want you to know that I trust you._

_And that we are equal in this._

_I want to feel you._

_I want to feel your pleasure inside of me._

_You are already inside of my head Sherlock, so...'_

John blushed.

A bit.  
  


 

Sherlock's face didn't change, but his breathing hitched a little.  
  
 _'Do...do you have any idea...what this means to me?_

_What you mean to me John?'_

He managed to say and pulled John closer.

The bottle abandoned.

His hands roamed John's back.  
  


 

_'I hope it transfers the message I intended.'_

John whispered and kissed him, passionately.  
  


They broke apart, panting once more, when Sherlock manhandled John to lie on his back with him on top.  
  
This wasn't about sex anymore now- this was making love.

And both of them were content and very eager to explore this together.  
  
Words were no longer required, none of them could do justice to what they both felt and would have liked to express.

Lips, tongues, mouths and skin were the messengers and they were generous and detailed in their transferral.  
  


 

The cap of the lubricant bottle flipped open and Sherlock looked deep into John's eyes for a last time.

When he received a subtle but encouraging nod he had been waiting for, he sqeezed some of the liquid onto his palm and rubbed it all over his hands.

When his fingers were coated thoroughly and the lube had warmed on his skin (something he had memorised John doing every time) he hesitated.

John was still lying on his back with his feet planted on the bed, knees drawn up and just looking at Sherlock.  
  
With an inclination of his head and a questioning gaze Sherlock slowly lay his index finger over John's puckered entrance and waited for approval.

John could very well read the question and confusion on Sherlock's face and knew how to interpret it- they had never done it in this position- facing each other.

Usually John preferred his clients on his hands and knees, not only so he had the best possible angle for penetration but also so he didn't have to face his patrons during the actual act.

It was one thing to whisper sweet nothings into their ears and play pretend but it was a whole different story to keep your facial expressions under control whilst having sex with someone you felt absolutely nothing for.

And the times John had faced his bedmates, it had always been women, who generally preferred missionary and who had been actual dates, people he cared about, even if it had never been love.

Not like this, as he now realised.  
  


 

The creature now staring at him, intense, concentrated, anticipating, trusting, a little self-conscious and a little unsure of what he was doing and if he did it right, was the most amazing sight and made John's heart throb even more.

How it had come to this- how the two of them had come to meet and fall for one another was a mystery to both of them. 

Being burned and scarred by people and emotion every time they had opened up to it, so far had left them damaged.

But now the time had finally come to heal what was broken and to lick each other's wounds (quite literally) and move through life and pain and haunting memories together.

Hold onto each other and walk through the battlefield with their heads raised and their hands joined.

Because now- together- they were invincible.

No one could ever tell John he was sick, he was worthless, he was disgusting because he had found someone, a partner, a mate, a friend who accepted him, who wanted him, who loved him exactly the way he was.

And he had found the danger, the thrill, the safe retreat he had always wanted, always chased after in this one person in return and that the universe or whatever deity was responsible could actually bless them both with one another was something John would have never imagined to happen.  
  
Here was this man, gently stroking his fingers over a part of John's body that was so utterly sensitive and vulnerable that rational thought had to be abandoned to let him continue.

How easily he could be hurt, hurt beyond repair if this man chose to do so and how much trust it required to share this, this moment, this part of himself, those feelings, John couldn't wrap his mind around.

He only knew that he wouldn't change a single thing about this man, about himself and the way Sherlock looked at him as he caressed him gently, oh so gently and then applied a little pressure where it was happily welcomed and desperately needed.  
  
John moaned as Sherlock pressed two fingers against him and he spread his legs wide to give him better access.

Sherlock followed suit by positioning himself right between them, one hand rubbing circles onto the skin of John's left thigh and the other massaging, wiping the lube all over John's bottom, making him giggle with the ticklish feeling and the mental image of his behind shining like a polished apple.  
  


_'Alright?'_

Sherlock asked, unsure what the giggling meant.  
  


 

_'Perfect._

_Give me some more, Sherlock._

_Please._

_I think I'm ready for some more.'_

John whispered in response.  
  


 

A yelp was what followed next when Sherlock tried to press the tip of his index finger inside.  
  


 

_'Sorry, I'm so sorry!_

_You're not ready yet._

_I should have known!'_

He stammered looking miserable that he had caused John pain.  
  


 

_'Jesus, I thought...'_

John began and breathed in deeply.  
  


 

_'Sorry. I'll...I...let me think for a second, alright?'_

Sherlock asked and continued to caress John's skin to make it up to him.  
  


John didn't respond, focused on the pleasure of the touch and bracing himself for the discomfort that would soon follow this.

Then Sherlock made a satisfied noise as he apparently came to a conclusion and scooted backwards on the bed to lower his head between John's legs.  
  


_'What...?'_   
  


_'John, a human phalanx has an average circumference of 4,5 to 5cm in women and an even larger one in men._

_Covered by the three main layers of skin and an additional layer of muscle beneath, it obviously consists of solid bone and is not very...'giving' in itself by means of shape and diameter._

_It is more appropriate then to apply a softer, more bendable and adjustable part of my body to acommodate yours.'_   
  


 

John gave him a blank look.  
  


 

_'For example my tongue.'_

Sherlock elaborated with a mischievous smile.


	10. Agreement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The muse is there but the time to write it down in proper form is not.  
> I am truly sorry for that and promise to do better soon!

 

 

The first lick- and John Watson came undone.  
  
Writhing on the bed like a man possessed he moaned and sighed and whimpered.   
  
All in time with Sherlock's tongue licking, lapping, stroking his sensitive opening with gentle care.  
  
He smiled at the sounds he could elicit from his partner- his lover.   
  
And he smiled even more at the thought that this was theirs now.   
  
This they shared and loved and kept- their secret, for no one and nothing was allowed to come between them.  
  


_You and me._   
  
_Sherlock and John._   
  
_Now and then._   
  
_In the future._   
  


In their future, shared in joy and sorrow, Sherlock would wake John up this way.   
  
He'd wake him with the sweetest caress and then they'd make love.   
  
Again and again.   
  
And every time their bond would grow stronger until it almost felt as if they were the same person.  
  
Lovers.   
  
That's what they were now.  
  


Sherlock sighed into the next stroke, the warm breath from his nose ghosting over John's skin, making him shudder with pleasure.  
  


 

 _'My god, Sherlock!!!'_

He exclaimed, his back arching off the bed.  
  


 

Grinning Sherlock looked up from between John's legs and saw what his ministrations had done to him.   
  
John was panting, mouth open, saliva glistening on his lips and his eyes were closed.

He tossed and turned his head on the mattress, chasing that feeling, craving the next touch of his beloved's tongue on him.  
  
It was intoxicating and with a growl Sherlock ducked his head again and licked and lapped, covering John's skin in spit and warming him, wetting him, preparing him for what would soon, oh please, very soon follow.  
  
As John moaned again, helplessly, pleading for more and thus encouraging Sherlock, he dared to dip his tongue inside its welcoming home.  
  


Inside.  
  
Inside.  
  
Inside John Watson.  
  
Nothing could ever compare to this feeling.   
  
This feeling of utter joy, love and posession.

  
  
 _'You are mine now.'_   
  
Sherlock growled in between strokes.  
  


 

_'Yes, god yes._

_Sherlock!_

_I'm yours._

_I belong to you._

_Only you.'_   
  
John pleaded and promised while trying to get enough oxygen into his lungs.  
  
His breathing was heavy now, like a man drowning he gulped in air and held onto the sheets as if they would keep him from falling.  
  
And in a way he was.   
  
Drowning.   
  
Falling.   
  
Falling into Sherlock's open arms, his love, his secret soul and drowning inside of it, the way they matched, completed each other, gave comfort to each other.  
  
He was completely lost and he found that he couldn't care less.   
  
He embraced it, welcomed it.   
  
Not being in the focus all on his own for once, but sharing it.   
  
Being part of something, this, a team, a couple, a unit.  
  


  
_Unify us, Sherlock._   
  
_Make me yours and I'll make you mine._   
  
_Let's melt together and never divide again._   
  
  


He sighed.   
  
And moaned.   
  
And he looked at Sherlock only to find him staring back.  
  
A moment passed where they just stared at each other.   
  
Then Sherlock laid a single finger over John's prepared opening.  
  


 

 _'I think you're ready now.'_

He purred.  
  


 

 _'Come here.'_

John gesticulated with his hands, which shook a little.  
  


Sherlock did as he was told and crawled up John's body, dropping kisses everywhere and leaving fire within their wake, where gooseflesh emerged.

 

  
 _'Let me have another taste of you.'_

John whispered when he could finally card his fingers through Sherlock's hair, cradle his head and kiss him.  
  


 

 _'Us, you mean.'_

Sherlock corrected.  
  


 

_'Yes._

_Us._

_I love this._

_I-'_

And Sherlock kissed him, cutting off those words that might freak him out and make him do or say something that would ruin this, end this. 

And this must never end.  
  
This was inducing such intense emotion within him, he feared he might actually cry if he thought about it too much.  
  
All that had happened, to both of them, had let him think he would never be able to find something like this and accept it as a part of himself.   
  
Never find someone he could actually trust.   
  
Never open up enough to let someone else in, break through the outer walls and enter the grounds of his mind palace.   
  
But here they were.   
  
Flowers were growing everywhere now, where there used to lie ash.   
  
And those flowers spelled out John's name with their perfume, the trees whispered his name and the bees, oh the bees! that had finally come back to him, they hummed in   
unity, almost like a choir cheering the beauty of the world, this world, where only he and John existed.  
  


_'I...I think I'll freak out a little if you say this now.'_

He confessed with an uneasy smile, trying not to blush of embarassment.  
  


 

_'I know._

_I...sorry._

_Might slip out, though._

_At some point.'_

John smirked, the innuendo clear.  
  


 

_'Oh, let's not think about things slipping out._

_I very much hope everything stays where it belongs...'_

Sherlock whispered and leaned down to kiss John's nose.

He adored John's nose.

It made John chuckle and if that wasn't the best sound in the world, Sherlock didn't know or wanted to care.  
  


He pressed his finger against John's opening and pushed in slightly, the muscle giving in much more than before and almost drawing him in further of its own accord.  
  


 

 _'Oh my god!'_

John sighed and looked at Sherlock with something like desperation in his eyes.  
  


 

 _'Good?'_

Sherlock asked with a smirk and then began to slowly remove his finger before John could even answer.  
  


 

 _'Holy...!'_

He shouted and grabbed Sherlock's shoulders for support.

_'Does it always..._

_I mean...do you...?'_   
  


 

_'Yes._

_Always._

_Every single time._

_And it's not even the best part yet, John.'_

Sherlock hovered over him.

Eyes fixed on John's face, cataloguing every movement, every sound, every sign of a flinch, discomfort, pain.  
  


 

Nothing.  
  
Bliss.  
  
And another moan as he pushed in again.   
  
Slowly.   
  
A slightly obscene sound at the withdrawal.  
  
Perfect.  
  
More lube.  
  
Another finger.  
  
John's back arched off the bed once again at the sensation.  
  
He held onto Sherlock's shoulder as if he was the life raft in an ocean of sensation.  
  
And their eyes never lost contact.  
  


 

_'I want to feel you, John._

_So bad.'_

Sherlock murmured with a look on his face, John could only describe as pleading.   
  
Yearning.   
  
Longing.  
  


 

_'Yes, please._

_Do it now, Sherlock._

_Sherlock!'_

John screamed as he thrust a third finger in.  
  


 

_'John._

_My John._

_Look at you._

_If you could see yourself.'_

 

He withdrew.

Entered again.  
  


_'Completely at my mercy and loving it._

_Giving this to me._

_How beautiful you are._

_How utterly, utterly beautiful.'_

 

  
And then he kissed him hungrily.   
  
Biting at John's bottom lip and sighing into his mouth.   
  
The tip of his tongue once again emerging and delving into John.   
  
Meeting with his significant other within the heat of John's mouth and dancing.   
  
Communicating.  
  


 

_You._

_Only you._

_How much you mean to me._

_How much I need you._

_Love you._

_Cannot say it out loud yet._

_Will do._

_Have to show you._

_Have to make you feel._   
  


 

Slowly his hand started feeling for the lube bottle lying abandoned on the sheets.   
  
When he found it he pulled back, both of them gasping for air and then giggling madly.  
  


 

 _'Condom?'_

Sherlock asked and looked towards the nightstand.  
  


 

 _'If you don't mind.'_

John said, determined and yet a little unsure if Sherlock would dislike it.  
  


 

 _'Whatever you want,... love.'_

Sherlock added, his voice going up at the end to phrase it as a tiny question.

He didn't know whether or not endearments were alright or welcomed by John.  
  


 

 _'Thank you,...my darling.'_

John answered and then burst out laughing.   
  


Sherlock joined in as he crawled over John to get to the nightstand.

One big hand resting against John's ribs.

Practically feeling the laughter bubbling up inside of John's body.  
  


 

_'I think that will take some getting used to.'_   
  


 

 _'I agree.'_

Sherlock said, picking a foil package from the drawer and ripping it open with his teeth.  
  



	11. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comes.  
> Home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a while again, but I have been in London over the weekend to see Richard III and for the SH picnic and couldn't type up my notes. Here you are with another chapter, hope you like it! And look out for the Frozen quote ;)

 

 

 

 _'You know you're not supposed to do it like that...'_  
  
Sherlock looked up from where he had halfway rolled the condom on to give him an annoyed look.

As if to dare John to question his methods.

Of course he was only teasing.

He broke into a smile and leaned over to kiss John just for being so endearing, the doctor in him insisting on proper care and protection and being absolute right in doing so, of course.

 

_'My doctor.'_

Sherlock murmured against John's lips, his other hand busy rolling the latex all the way up his penis.  


 

_'Get used to it.'_

John teased, smiling against Sherlock's lips in return.  


 

_'Oh, I can't think of anything I'd rather do, John._

_Being with you._

_All the time.'_   


 

_'That's settled then.'_

John concluded and pulled Sherlock towards and on top of him.

_'Like this?_

_I want to see you.'_

John whispered shifting on the mattress, spreading his legs to give Sherlock room and better access.  


 

_'Oh yes...'_

Sherlock pulled John towards him, grabbing him by the hips.

_'I can't believe it.'_   
  


 

_'What?'_

John's voice was suddenly full of concern.  


 

_'This.'_

Sherlock gestured between them.

_'Us.'_   


 

_'Oh.'_

John nodded, pulling Sherlock's face towards his.  
  
 _'I know._

_It somehow feels like dreaming, doesn't it?'_   


 

_'Oh, but we are far from dreaming, John, thank god._

_And if we were I wouldn't want to wake up for anything in the world.'_   


 

John chuckled.

_'Come on._

_Make this dream come true.'_   


 

_'Oh, I certainly will make something come- or rather...you.'_

Sherlock grinned mischieviously, gripping John by his hips once again and guiding his own cock to his entrance.

_'Ready?'_   


 

_'Oh god, yes!'_

Sherlock gently set the tip of his penis to John's opening and pushed slightly.  


 

_'Oh god!'_

John exclaimed, more out of anticipation than from actually feeling much, yet.  


 

_'Okay?'_

Sherlock tried to reassure himself.  


 

_'Bloody fantastic._

_Keep going._

_Don't stop, please.'_

John whispered, almost pleading.  


 

Another inch, another moan, another desperate exclamation.

This time from Sherlock.

The sensation almost overwhelming.

That feeling of finally- finally being inside, inside of John, his lover, of being exactly where he wanted to be and where he belonged.

Of home.

This was home.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity Sherlock felt safe and loved and most of all appreciated.

John kept telling him how good Sherlock made him feel, how much more he wanted, needed of him.

And it almost took Sherlock's breath away to finally feel what it was like to let go.

Let go of all the fears, the anger, the hate and just be.

Be who he always knew he was, yet no one wanted to have.

John did.

He stared at Sherlock wide-eyed.

With so much wonder and love that with a final push Sherlock seated himself fully just to be that final bit closer.

Ever closer.

Not an inch or a single doubt between them.  


 

This is us.  
  
Ever the same.  
  
I love you.  
  
And this is how it feels.  


 

_'Here we are.'_

Sherlock whispered against John's lips and kissed him.  


 

_'You're inside me.'_

John pointed out stupidly.

But it was fine.

It's what sex does to you.

Your brain shuts down and you get into animal mode.

Exactly the reason why Sherlock had approached John in the first place.

Set his brain to default.

Reboot.

Blank.  


 

_'I am._

_We are as close as we can get._

_How does it feel?'_   


 

_'Amazing._

_You are amazing Sherlock...'_   


 

_'You are, John._

_I wouldn't have expected any of this when I came here today._

_And I would have never even dreamt you'd let me do this.'_   


 

_'But here we are.'_

John murmured.

Carding his fingers through Sherlock's hair.  


 

_'Yes._

_You keep surprising me, doctor.'_

Sherlock chuckled and it rumbled through them both.

 

_'I came to you with nothing and John you gave me everything._

_Everything I never knew I wanted or needed._

_And there's only so much I can give you.'_   


 

John kissed him then, fiercly.  
  
 _'This is not 'give or take', Sherlock._

_I love to make you happy, I love to be the one that makes you laugh, moan, scream._

_I particularly like it when my walls vibrate with your shouts of pleasure.'_   


 

_'Your...walls.'_

And Sherlock could barely contain his laughter.  


 

_'Oh fuck off!'_

John retorted.

_'No wait!_

_Fuck me._

_Please?'_

 

 

And his playfully pleading look warmed Sherlock's heart and let heat spread inside his lower abdomen.

_'Only a fool would argue with his doctor.'_

Sherlock practically purred and slowly withdrew only to push back in just as agonizingly gentle.  


 

_'Oh...god...Sherlock!'_

John moaned and gripped Sherlock's bum with both hands, impatient, trying to pull him in deeper.  


 

_'Easy, John._

_I don't want to hurt you.'_   


 

_'You- Oh, fuck!_

_Please!_

_More!'_   


 

Sherlock rocked forward harder.  
  
 _'John...'_

Sherlock whispered into his lover's ear.

_'Thank you.'_   


 

_'Oh my...'_

John's mind had gone blank.

His body narrowed down to their point of connection, where Sherlock ended, John ended and 'us' was born.

The sensations so exquisite, like John had never experienced before.

Sure, there had been the initial discomfort, the burning ache low in his pelvis.

But that had faded.

The moment Sherlock had entered him fully, it had reduced to a quiet murmur, drowned out in the feeling and awareness of Sherlock.

On him, in him, holding him, guiding him, owning him.  


 

_'Please never stop!'_

He whispered and sought Sherlock's mouth to kiss him deeply.  


 

_'I don't intend to.'_

Sherlock panted and picked up speed.

Like a racehorse galloping them both toward completion, chasing, chasing that high, the implosion inside of his skull, in time with explosions of his seed within John.  


 

_'Oh god, close!'_

John exclaimed and grabbed Sherlock's narrow shoulders, holding on for dear life.  


 

_'Me, too.'_

Sherlock grunted and dove in for another kiss.

_'Breathe.'_

He then ordered.  


 

_'What?'_

John's eyes were going unfocused.  


 

_'Breathe deeply in and out...mmm...._

_It will heighten the sensation.'_

Sherlock explained and thrust and thrust and thrust, harder, faster, every push stroking John's prostate, every pull caressing his own tip.

_'Oxytocin is...mffff...currently being released into your...hhhh...bloodstream and deep breathing will...fffff...transport it more quickly to- ouh! -every receptor of your body,...hhhhh...thus heightening the sensation of orgasm....aaaahhh...'_   


 

_'Go on.'_

John encouraged.

Panting heavily himself.  


 

_'Can't...'_

Sherlock pleaded and squeezed his eyes shut, breathing in deeply through his nose.  


 

_'Look at me, darling....hhhhh....'_

John put his palm to Sherlock's face.

The other man now complied, his eyes flying open.

_'I want to see you....'_

 

It took a moment for Sherlock to process this, then:  
  
 _'Yes....'_

His eyes fixed on John, he slowed down his tempo, every stroke savoured, cherished.

Their stomachs sliding against each other as he leaned ever closer, slick with sweat and John's precome as they breathed in tandem.

 

_'Come....'_

John whispered and sucked in a deep breath, eyes fixed to Sherlock's, the resulting caress of his skin against Sherlock's chest finally tipped Sherlock over the edge.

 

_'HOME!'_

He shouted and sucked in air hungrily, as if he had been drowning.

Drowning in sensation.

Drowning in John.  


 

 

* * *

 

 

They lay, Sherlock collapsed on John with his head resting against John's frantically beating heart, eyes closed.

 

_'Home...'_

John whispered, carding his fingers through Sherlock's hair lazily.  


 

_'Hm?'_

The other man murmured into his chest, his breathing spreading damply on John's chest hair.  


 

_'You said 'home' when you came.'_

John explained.

_'Why?'_   


 

_'Because I came._

_Home.'_

Sherlock said, thinking that it made perfect sense.

When John didn't respond he lifted his head and looked up at him.  
  
 _'There is no point in saying 'I'm coming' if you don't tell where to.'_  


 

This didn't help much on John's front, though Sherlock lay back down, perfectly content with himself and his answer.  


 

_'So...home...that's me?'_   


 

_'Of course.'_

Sherlock pushed up onto his hands now, resting them on John's chest, staring at him bewildered.  


 

_'I'm home to you?'_

_You're home is- me?_

John asked once more, his voice still tainted with disbelieve and awe.  


 

_'For the first time in forever, yes-_

_I'm home, John.'_   


 

_'Aww, come here, you...'_

John pulled him down into a bruising kiss.

_'Come home to me.'_

He whispered against Sherlock's lips.  


 

_'Always.'_

Sherlock replied and their lips met once again.

But certainly not for the last time.


	12. 3:30 AM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My head is bowed in shame for being so infrequent with my updates, but the past weeks have been rough and I had a lot to deal with. As things are getting better now I hope I'll find more time to put into words what is already plotted out in my head.  
> Bear with me ;)

 

 

When John woke up, it was no surprise to him to find himself tangled in the sheets- alone.

Sherlock had fled the bed, so much was instantly obvious- and quite alright, really.

Had their roles been reversed and John woken first, he would have done the same.

The past few hours had brought a change with them, an irrevocable, scaring change and John understood very well that Sherlock had sought solitude to think it all through, re-live it and wrap his mind around it all.

To sort through his emotions and come to terms with what was going to come.

They both needed time on their own to process this.

He stretched languidly then, the sensation of orgasm long gone, but the remnants of oxytocin, of serotonin and dopamine still there.

The slightly burning sting reminded him of the (really very tiny and very bearable) downside of last night’s activities and he wondered if one would ever get used to it over time.

Breathing calmly he recalled Sherlock’s words.

 

_Home. For the first time._

 

His heart swelled at the sentiment, the heavy meaning behind it, once more overwhelmed that he could mean this much, be this much for someone else.

But at the same time the fear of failing crept back in, of disappointing this man, losing him, not being enough.

 

He sighed, willing away his demons and got up, not really knowing what to do- or say, for that matter.

As he swung his legs over the edge of the mattress and got up, he winced again.

 

_Definitely worth it._

 

He thought and rubbed his back, bringing his bones into order.

He padded into the living room slowly, scratching the back of his head and yawning.

It was, after all, only half past three in the morning.

Looking around, he saw that the table had been cleared and Gladstone was snoring silently in his basket by the fireplace.

Finally, John recognized the smell of coffee coming from the kitchen.

 

Up and awake then.

And still here.

Good.

 

He trudged into the next room and found Sherlock sitting at the counter, steaming cup of coffee in front of him, with his chin resting on his palm, lost in thought.

 

_‘Morning.’_

John greeted and went to collect himself a mug as well.

Giving Sherlock space.

 

_‘Morning.’_

Sherlock muttered, sitting up, awoken from his reverie.

 

As John poured himself some of the strong brew Sherlock had made, neither of them spoke.

He sat down at the counter opposite Sherlock and spooned sugar into his drink, patiently waiting.

 

_‘John…’_

Sherlock began, not meeting his eyes, staring into his mug instead.

_‘I…’_

 

_‘You need time, that’s okay._

_I know it’s quite…big.’_

John’s brain was still so sleep-addled, that it took moments for him to process his own pun and giggle foolishly.

 

_‘That’s good._

_Thank you._

_But that’s not what I meant.’_

Sherlock said quietly and couldn’t hide a slight smile himself.

 

_‘Oh?’_

John retorted and fear crept into his heart in an instant. Had he…? Was Sherlock…?

 

_‘I am an addict, John.’_

Sherlock said and the words hung heavy in the air between them.

Moments passed where John just stared at the other man, trying to process this and find something to say in return.

 

_'So am I.'_

He finally said, with a sheepish, hopeful half-smile on his face.

Sherlock’s expression, though, remained serious.

 

_'No, I mean it, John._

_I'm a recovering addict._

_I used to do cocaine._

_And Morphine.'_

And with that he couldn’t bear John’s eyes on him any longer.

He lowered his head and stared into his mug again, awaiting the oncoming storm.

John was a doctor.

Of course he would be utterly disappointed now and appalled.

 

But then John did the unexpected all over again.

 

  
_'Alright.'_

He said with a nod and raised his mug to his mouth.

The issue resolved in his opinion.

  
Sherlock’s brain made a full stop.

He blinked several times in rapid succession with his mouth hanging open quite literally.

 

_'Alright?'_

He asked, incredulous.

He could not be serious.

No one took his former addiction lightly.

Everyone lectured him about it.

Everyone-

 

_Oh._

The revelation hitting him like a train nonetheless, even when he was sure he had known this deep down inside of him for quite a while now.

John Watson was absolutely NOT like everyone else in Sherlock’s life.

 

_'First of all you said you ‘used to’ do cocaine, so not anymore-_

_I…I certainly approve of that and secondly, I thank you for being so honest with me._

_Sherlock, you have no idea how important that is to me._

_And lastly- I am certainly not the one to judge._

_You had your reasons._

_I can imagine what they were and I can’t possibly blame you._

_How can I dare to blame you for being human?_

_And anyway- you are not…_

_You at least didn't stare at the gun in your nightstand over and over again, contemplating your options._

_Like I have done.'_

He added reluctantly, but with an even voice.

 

Sherlock stared at him with big, round eyes, not wanting to even contemplate what his life would be like had he never had the chance to meet John- because John would have taken himself out of the equation long before.

John very well sensed Sherlock’s agitation and added:

_'That was my darkest hour, I promise you!_

_I- eventually I put it away, but-‘_

 

And now **he** bowed his head, avoiding Sherlock’s eyes.

_‘- with a feeling of reluctance._

_And shame.'_

 

It was as if a knot had come undone.

Sherlock got up from his bar stool and walked over to his lover, turning him around in his chair so that he could wrap his arms around him and cradle his head against his chest.

Of course they would be honest to each other about their past.

About their fears and weaknesses.

Just as in any other aspect of their life together.

Because together they were stronger.

And neither of them would ever judge the other.

You do not ask a person about their scars if you have your own.

You know how much it hurts having to explain them.

But this- this was as if John had been there with him all his life.

This innate understanding and comfort that he brought forth.

The love.

John loved Sherlock.

And that, in itself, was enough to take Sherlock’s breath as well as all his fears away.

He was not inferior.

Neither was John.

They were human.

And now they were one.

 

_'I once didn't intend to wake up._

_I failed obviously, for here I am._

_And you have no idea how glad I am that this little shit sold me blended coke._

_I swore I would kill him if I ever saw him again. I guess now I would rather thank him.'_

 

_‘Maybe let him off the hook if you’re ever involved in tracking him down?’  
_

John suggested.

 

Sherlock chuckled.

The sound of it rumbling through his chest so John could feel it against his cheek.

 

_‘See?_

_Still beating._

_Only now it’s beating for you only.’_

Sherlock muttered and bent down to place a kiss onto the crown of John’s head.

 

John brought up his hands to place it over Sherlock’s as they held him tight.

 

_‘You should know- the gun is still in my nightstand._

_Just in case- you know._

_If ever a client…’_

 

_‘Good idea._

_Though I’d rather you put it to other use.’_

Sherlock said, a bit cryptically.

 

_‘What do you mean?’_

John tried to turn his head and look at him.

Sherlock wouldn’t let him.

 

_‘Please let me say this._

_If you look at me now I might lose my confidence.’_

Sherlock’s voice was strangely weak.

 

_‘Sherlock?_

_Anything.’_

John squeezed his hands reassuringly.

_‘Tell me what’s bothering you, please.’_

 

_‘I…John.’_

 

_‘Yes?’_

 

_‘I think…I know-‘_

Sherlock stopped again.

Shifting from one foot to the other nervously.

 

_‘I want to be with you._

_Always.’_

And he sounded so shy and vulnerable, it almost broke John’s heart.

 

_‘Can…can we do that?’_

He added, hope and fear in his voice in equal parts.

 

John twisted out of his grasp, jumped off the chair and kissed him hard.

Holding his head with both hands, he kissed him, tried to show him with every press and pull of his lips how much he agreed, how much he wanted this, too.

How desperately he wanted to tell Sherlock that he loved him, too.

Because this- just, was as close to an _I love you_ as Sherlock could have got.

 

When they finally broke apart, gasping and dazed, they chuckled, feeling giddy and silly like teenagers experiencing love for the first time.

 

_‘So…I take it that’s a yes.’_

Sherlock concluded dumbly, actually wiping his mouth with his thumb.

 

_‘Definitely a yes.’_

John confirmed and slung his arms around Sherlock’s waist.

_‘Now what do you think of going back to bed?_

_The night’s still young, as they say.’_

 

_‘We both just had coffee.’_

 

_‘I didn’t say we would sleep.’_

 

_‘Oh…right._

_I’d- I’d like that._

_Very much, indeed.’_

Sherlock finally purred and pulled John flush against himself.

_‘Doctor’s orders?’_

 

_‘I would say so.’_

John agreed and stood up on his toes to kiss Sherlock once again.


	13. An unexpected Guest

As John sat at the kitchen counter once again, dividing the scrambled eggs equally onto two plates, Sherlock walked in- fresh from the shower.

Dressed in one of his usual suits, he approached John, who was merely wearing a towel himself and extended a hand towards him.

With a slight turn of his head, John acknowledged the gesture, but then stopped.

 

_‘Wha-?’_   
  


 

_‘Here.’_

Sherlock said and John's brain finally processed that he was holding a bundle of pound notes in his hand.  
  


 

_‘Sherlock, I-‘_

He looked at him frowning.

Was-

had he missed-

no.

What?

No, no, no.

  
_‘I don’t want you to pay for the sex anymore, Sherlock._

_What-?’_   
  


 

_‘This is not meant to be payment for the sex we have, John.'_

Sherlock clarified.

_'Clearly this is meant as an incentive and proposal for you to not have sex with anyone else anymore._

_I thought it was quite obvious as of last night, but when I was in the shower I remembered it might need to be addressed formally.’_   
  


 

_‘You...’_

John began cautiously.  
  


 

_‘I am asking to be exclusive._

_I don’t see how I could possibly tolerate for you to have intercourse with other people now._

_And why you’d want that yourself anyway is...?_

_You were quite vocal about that last night, as I recall._

_But then again, it’s all a bit…blurred.’_

He cleared his throat awkwardly and stepped closer.  
  


 

_‘You mean, because you passed out at one point?’_

John teased and closed the gap between them.  
  


 

_‘Surely the sum is appropriate to keep us both well and happy.’_

Sherlock replied, completely ignoring what John had said, but blushing nonetheless.  
  


 

_‘You are serious about this.’_

John leaned back a little.  
  


 

_'Of course I am._

_Are you not?’_

Sherlock looked aghast.

 

 

And it took John only a second to understand how Sherlock had misinterpreted his statement- panic in his eyes clearly visible.

And John felt his pain, knew that fear of losing this again, had felt it himself often enough lately, the terror of expecting it all to be yet another dream- a fling that would be over far too soon.

Memories make you cautious.  

 

It was fucked up. 

They were both pretty fucked up. 

But this was intolerable. 

Sherlock had to know that, for the first time in his life, he was loved and cherished and nothing in the world could change the way John felt about him. 

About them.  
  


 

_‘Of course I am!_

_Don’t you doubt that for a second, Sherlock!’_

And John actually smacked him on the chest to remind him they were both awake and this- this was real.

So very real.

_'I..._

_I need you.'_

He said instead of those frightful words neither of them would speak just yet.

His big, blue eyes lit up with concern and trying to transmit reassurance.  
  


 

After a beat, Sherlock's frown vanished and he visibly relaxed.

_‘Well?_

_Will you take it then?_

_The money?’_

He asked, head inclined.

Insecurity in his eyes.  
  


 

_‘I don't know._

_I’m not sure…’_   
  


 

_‘I am.’_

Sherlock interjected, eyes downcast, but standing tall.  
  


 

_‘Oh fuck, of course, darling!_

_Okay!’_

John exclaimed, grabbing Sherlock by his bicep.  
  


 

 _‘Okay what?’_   
  


 

_‘Okay to the exclusive, I mean, of course we’ll be that now!_

_But no to the payment, Sherlock,’_

He took the money from Sherlock’s hands and put it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

 

_‘I'll rather stock shelves in Tesco than to be paid to be your partner, Sherlock._

_I- no money in the world could make a difference anyway._

_Could outweigh the value you have to me, you fool._

_What was that anyway?_

_Two hundred quid?’_

He eyed Sherlock with a humouring look.  
  


 

_‘Three hundred and fifty._

_My usual…charge._

_John, I do not mean it as-‘_

Now Sherlock looked genuinely confused by his own logic.  
  


 

_‘I know, Sherlock._

_I know you don’t.’_

He placed both hands on Sherlock’s chest.

 

_‘But I’d feel guilty taking this money from you._

_I need no bribing to be by your side._

_I choose to do so because I want it.’_

His hands sneaking up to cradle Sherlock’s head.

Which promptly caused the other man to close his eyes and savour the touch.

 

_‘Let me earn my own money, ok?_

_Without it involving sex, of course._

_I- I could never-'_

He cleared his throat.

 

_'-but I need something to do when you are out working._

_Can you understand that?’_

John’s voice had a pleading note to it now.

Something which was utterly unacceptable in Sherlock’s opinion- outside of bed at least.  
  


 

_‘I know it’s not exactly a small thing to ask, but...you could share the rent with me, you know?_

_That would help a great deal?’_

John asked.

 

  
Sherlock contemplated that for a moment.

 

_‘I could indeed.’_

He murmured, seemingly lost in thought, thinking about that.  
  


 

_‘Why don’t you...?’_   
  


 

_‘No, John._

_Not yet._

_I-‘_   
  


 

_‘Ok.’_

John nodded.

_‘Sherlock, I understand if you...’_   
  


 

_‘Be my partner, John.’_

Sherlock blurted and stared him directly in the eye, questioning.  
  


 

John’s mind stuttered.

 

_‘What do you mean?_

_I am...’_   
  


 

_‘My partner in crime._

_Solving crimes, I mean._

_And, of course in life, you fool.’_

He smiled at John brightly now.

Utterly pleased with himself for coming up with a neat solution for their situation.  
  


 

_‘Sherlock...’_   
  


 

_‘You are a soldier, John-‘_   
  


 

_‘Ex-soldier!’_

John protested.  
  


 

But Sherlock would have none of that.

 

_‘You are a soldier._

_You are not afraid of trouble or danger._

_You know how to carry and use a gun._

_You are still extremely fit._

_You are clever, you are the only one who can keep up with me and the only one who tolerates me.’_   
  


 

_‘So I am and so I do.’_

John said, a certain note of pride in his voice.  
  


 

_‘You are perfect- for me._

_So…what do you think?’_

Now Sherlock’s eyes were almost pleading.

 

  
_‘I’m not sure, Sherlock._

_I’m not a trained police officer and I have…well, I have a sort of reputation now, don’t I?’_   
  


 

But Sherlock ignored all his arguments.  
  
 _‘One case._

_Just one case, John.’_   
  


 

_‘But how can we do that?_

_I mean, your boss-‘_   
  


 

_‘-is a complete imbecile, as are all the others, you know that, John._

_You are far superior to them._

_And Greg- he won’t say a word._

_He’s…alright.’_   
  


 

_‘Alright?’_

John teased.  
  


 

_‘He knows when to leave me alone and when to try and take my mind off…things._

_I suppose he realised a while ago that there is something…troubling me._

_And he- he at least tries to understand and give me space._

_He doesn’t press for an explanation and he doesn’t mock me._

_So he’s alright, I’d say.’_

Sherlock curled his arms around John’s waist, thinking about how John was so much more than just alright.

So much more.  
  


 

_‘Quite right._

_But what would you want me to do?_

_What exactly do you-?’_   
  


 

_‘You’d do some legwork while I stay at the Yard._

_You love London, you love being outside, you have walked these streets countless times._

_See it as some kind of exercise, only you collect information on your way that will be useful to me.’_   
  


 

_‘That sounds like a noble profession.’_

John mused.  
  


 

_‘Nothing less.’_

Sherlock smirked.

 

_‘Your virtue will be restored in no time.’_

He said with mirth in his voice.  
  


 

_‘Until you debauch it again._

_I mean, me.’_   
  


 

_‘Of course._

_But isn’t that my right as your…’_   
  


 

_‘Love?’_

John prompted.  
  


 

_‘Yes, as your love.’_

Sherlock repeated, happiness alight in his eyes as he looked down at John.  
  


 

_‘Okay._

_We’ll try it and see how it goes._

_And...’_

Now John shuffled a little awkwardly from foot to foot.  
  


 

_‘I’ll cover your expenses generously.’_

Sherlock caught on quickly.  
  


 

_‘I...’_   
  


 

_‘John.’_

He added with a tone of warning.

_‘We both know that you need an income and you will help me a great deal by functioning as my…mediator.’_   
  


 

_‘Alright, alright._

_Now go eat your eggs before they go completely cold._

_You can do with the protein.’_

He said and actually winked at Sherlock.

Quickly sitting down in front of his own plate.  
  


 

Sherlock joined him and wolfed down his breakfast in less than three minutes without saying another word.

When he got up to collect his coat from the rack, he stopped behind John and leaned over his shoulder to whisper in his ear:

_‘Make sure you eat yours, John, because I’ll expect you to be at your best when I come home tonight.’_   
  


The innuendo of his choice of words struck John only once Sherlock closed the door behind himself.  
  


 

 

* * *

  
When Sherlock stepped out onto John's little porch, winding his scarf around his neck and ready to head off to the yard, a man just turned onto the little path leading up to the front door.

  
  
_'He's unavailable.'_

Sherlock said, lighting a cigarette and not acknowledging the man at all.   
  


Startled, the man froze and looked at him.  
  
 _'Sorry?'_

He said.  
  


 

But Sherlock, after pocketing his lighter, concentrated on checking his phone for texts while walking towards the gate to the street.  
  
 _'John._

_He's unavailable._

_You're wasting your time.'_

 

He said simply, not once looking up from his phone as he brushed past and stormed off to hail a taxi without looking the stranger in the face a single time.  
  


The man stood still for a minute before he finally made up his mind and walked up to the door, ringing the bell nonetheless.  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
_'And what again was the rust supposed to mean?'_

Lestrade asked, rolling up his shirtsleeves whilst peering over Sherlock's shoulder.  
  


 

The other man sighed impatiently.

_'You see, Greg, but you don't observe._

_What happens when you put a key into a lock?'_

Sherlock mumbled, hunched over a desk full of paper- reports, statements, pictures.  
  


 

_'The bolts are moved when you turn it.'_

Greg stated quite correctly.  
  


 

_'Before you turn it._

_Put the key into the lock._

_A lock covered in rust.'_

Sherlock still didn't look up, typing something into his laptop instead.  
  


 

_'I...Sherlock, seriously._

_Just tell me I'm an idiot and explain.'_  
  
Now Sherlock did, in fact, look up, his face incredulous.  
  


 

_'Did I ever call you an idiot?'_

He inquired and stared at his partner expectantly.  
  


 

_'Yes, you did._

_Twice this week, actually.'_

Greg spat, but only teasingly.  
  


 

_'I...I'm sorry.'_

Sherlock said surprised, before turning his attention back to his laptop, frowning at himself.  
  


 

_'Pardon, you're...What?'_   
  


 

_'I'm sorry, Greg._

_I'm sure that's an expression you have heard before.'_

Not looking up.  
  


 

_'Yes, but..._

_Are you alright?_

_I have never heard- you know what?_

_Nevermind._

_Thanks._

_Now would you care to enlighten me?'_

And Greg wore his sheepish grin again, the one that Sherlock liked best.  
  


 

_'I suppose I'm...I'm actually feeling quite good._

_For once.'_

And now Sherlock looked up at him again and there was an embarassed blush on his cheeks.

 _'I mean-'_   
  


 

But Greg just held up a hand.

Private was private.

_'Alright, mate._

_Don't have to tell me._

_Glad you are though._

_Happy, I mean._

_You...seem...content._

_Somehow.'_   
  


 

_'I am.'_

Sherlock said, but made it sound as if he was very much surprised by it himself.  
  


 

_'Good._

_Now tell me what happens when you put a key into a lock._

_With the rust and all.'_   
  


 

And Sherlock actually chuckled.  
  
  
  


* * *

  
John opened the door, expecting Sherlock to have come back for something.

He stopped in his tracks when the man outside his door turned out to be anyone but his love.  
  


_'Jim?'_

He asked stupidly and grabbed at the seam of his towel to secure it.  
  


 

_'Hi.'_

The man cheered and even gave a little wave.

A syrupy-sweet smile plastered across his reptile-like face.  
  


 

_'Oh...erm._

_Jesus, I totally forgot about you.'_

John said honestly, shifting uncomfortably on his feet.

_'I'm afraid that I am...unavailable, Jim.'_   
  


 

_'Oh.'_

Jim said, disappointment obvious in his tone as well as on his face.

_'And another time?'_

A glint of hope returning to his eyes.  
  


 

_'I'm sorry, but- It's a permanent decision.'_

John said, straightening up, as if he were back on parade, his new role of domesticated partner filling him with a certain pride.

 

_'It's also private._

_So you'll have to...you'll have to find someone else._

_I'm sorry.'_

And with one last glance at his rejected former patron, he closed the door.  
  


 

Jim's mask of nonchalance dropped instantly.

Determination creeping into his eyes as he licked his lips and turned to walk away.

Smiling to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WUUUUUAAAAAHHHHH! I need to make up my mind! Move to London and leave everything I now have behind or stay stuck here, dying like flower day by day but in relative safety? Can someone take that chicken out of me please?  
> Anyway, sorry it took so long again, but REAL LIFE. You know what I mean.


	14. The Reason I Love You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am giddy and at the same time petrified.  
> I finally faced my own fears and made the decision to abandon ship here and set sails for London.  
> I have yet to find a job, a flat and my way through bureaucracy.  
> Hopefully my newfound joy in life now will make me write more often^^  
> I thank everyone for their encouraging words! I read your comments and literally couldn't bear it any longer, drove to work and talked to my boss! Never been so nervous, never felt so relieved and liberated! So thank you!

 

 

 

_'I see!'_

Greg exclaimed.

_'My god, what is it like in your brain?_

_No wonder you seem exhausted so often.'_   
  


 

Sherlock almost choked on his coffee.

Coughing, he wiped his mouth with a napkin and turned in his chair.

After a long, confused look at his partner, a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth and he said:

_'Really, Greg, I would not wish for anyone to be burdened with it._

_Except my brother of course.'_   
  


 

 _'You never told me that you have a brother.'_  
  
Sherlock cocked his head.

_'Haven't I?_

_Well, I don't see him all that much and we...well, he is indeed exhausting my brain when he's around.'_   
  


 

_'Older or younger?'_   
  


 

_'Older.'_   
  


 

_'Ouch._

_Over-bearing and over-protective?'_

Greg giggled.  
  


 

Sherlock froze at those words.

How could Greg know-?

No, he couldn't possibly-?

Or could he?

A cold shiver ran down his spine but Greg continued, unfazed.  
  


 

_'I mean, there's something about you Sherlock._

_It's none of my business, but with your transfer and all that, I can guess that things didn't run smoothly for you in some way before, so I suppose, being an older brother myself, that he's worried and tries to interfere with your life as much as he can, whenever he can._

_It's what I would do.'_

He added as an afterthought and reached for a biscuit.  
  


 

_'You- you have siblings?'_

Sherlock asked, heart still throbbing in his chest, but the panic subsiding.

He eyed the plate in front of him varily before he popped a crumbly cookie into his mouth as well.  
  


 

_'Lots!'_

Lestrade exclaimed around a mouthful of crumbs.

_'I'm the eldest of five.'_   
  


 

_'Dear god!'_

Sherlock rolled his eyes in horror, not even daring to imagine what it would be like with four Mycrofts around.  
  


 

_''S not so bad, actually._

_But then again, I get to do all the worrying and used to be the babysit and general punching ball for everyone.'_   
  


 

_'That...must have been difficult.'_

Sherlock said cautiously.

Lost in thought.  
  


 

_'Nah, back then, maybe, but not anymore._

_Love 'em to bits, the whole lot of them!'_   
  


 

_'That's the one!'_

Sherlock suddenly exclaimed and sprang from his stool.

Completely focused on his new theory, he began rifling through the papers covering his desk and muttering to himself, completely oblivious to his partner.  
  
All Greg could do was surpress a chuckle and set off to get them more coffee.

Sherlock was in 'Deduction mode'.  
  


  
  


* * *

 

John leaned heavily against the door, taking deep, controlled breaths and closing his eyes to calm himself.  
  
That had not gone too well.

He should have remembered his 10am client. 

He should have thought about it.

About what would happen now, how he could gently tell his patrons to literally 'fuck off' because his services were no longer available.

He should have come to terms with all that would change now and calculate the consequences.

For himself and for Sherlock.

He should have made up a plan.

Should have thought of a fall back.

Now he leaned against his front door, clad in a towel, feeling a bit empty and a bit guilty but his soldier's determination creeping back in quickly.  
  


He pushed himself off the door and went to retreive his mobile, his laptop and his RAMC mug full of the strongest coffee he could brew.  
  


He was Captain John Watson.

He could handle this.

He was a soldier.

He had killed people.

He also was a doctor.

He had the knowledge and skills to save them. 

He could handle this. 

He could handle this. 

He could certainly handle this.  
  
It's what he kept repeating to himself, as he typed out his thoughts.  
  
  
  


* * *

  
_'Any progress?'_

Greg asked cautiously as he put down a new plastic cup of coffee next to Sherlock.  
  


 

_'Seems like it._

_I need to go back to the crime scene and check something.'_

Sherlock mumbled and pushed away from the table, already slipping on his coat.

_'I'll text you.'_   
  


 

_'Hang on, I-'_

Greg protested.  
  


 

_'No, Greg._

_I need to think._

_And I won't be in afterward, I have to head home.'_

Sherlock insisted and dashed out of the door.  
  


 

_'Whatever you want, you mad bastard.'_

Greg whispered and stole Sherlock's coffee from the desk.  
  
  


 

* * *

  
Sherlock had walked almost a mile until he realised that he had just called John's flat his home.

A strange feeling spread in his chest and he frowned at himself as he pulled his scarf tighter around his neck.

John had offered that he could move in, but- wasn't it too soon for that?

But then again, what more did he want to happen?

How much time was supposed to pass until he would make that step?

Societal norms.

He'd never understood them.

It was only his own fears that kept him from packing up his things this very night and waking up in John's flat, their flat, by tomorrow morning.

This irrational spark of fear that he could not extinguish.

But maybe that was exactly the point.

Maybe he needed to finally make that step.

Maybe John had to extinguish it for him, help him, by showing him that it was alright, he was alright and they could do this- together.

They were partners now.

Lovers.

In every sense of the word.  
  


He needed to think about this in more detail.

Write down his thoughts and calculate his next move.

It was chess, basically.

All his life was one precise step after the other.

A single person had drained all the colour out of his life and left him only with black and white.

It was his responsibility to find the right moves that, although performed on fields of black, would lead him along fields of white all the same- the moments he clung to and would make the most of as he passed by.  
  
A game of chess ended when the king fell and Sherlock very much thought that he had recently made all the right moves and found a way to defend his king from the clasping hands of his own subconscious, his fears and his self-doubts- for good.

The key to it all was a sandy-haired soldier that had entered his life quite unexpectedly but who had turned it completely upside down.

Sherlock could almost believe now that he no longer moved on black fields but on the white ones instead.

Together with John.

And although there was no such piece as a soldier on a board of chess, Sherlock couldn't help but think of John as the most important of them all. 

The only one to save him.  
  
  
  
  


* * *

 

 

When Sherlock rang the doorbell, he smiled, happy with himself and his decision.

When he opened the door, John was wearing his usual jeans and jumper combination.

Comfort- that's what they conveyed.

And comfort is what Sherlock was seeking and found here.  
  


_'Hello, love.'_

John said and smiled as eagerly in return.

 

He stepped aside to let Sherlock enter and walked ahead towards the living room to sit down on the sofa again.

There was no need for excessive courtesy, this had become just as much of a home to Sherlock and he damn well could do as he pleased within these walls.

John was no longer just a host.

He was a partner.

A lover.

They shared this place as they shared a bed and, whenever they made love, one soul as well.

 

Sherlock settled himself next to John and placed his head on his shoulder as he sank against him.

Instantly, John's left hand came up behind his back to cradle that precious head and play with Sherlock's hair.

Something both of them had found they enjoyed a lot.

The resulting contented sigh from Sherlock was proof of that fact.  
  


 

_'How was work?'_

John whispered and placed a gentle kiss to his lover's curls.  
  


 

_'Exhausting._

_But constructive._

_I could prove a point, if only to me.'_

He muttered.

His eyes had fallen shut.   
  


 

He really was exhausted, John thought.  
  
 _'Are you hungry?_

_I have some leftover lasagna.'_   
  


 

_'Nope._

_Very happy where I am._

_Thank you.'_

The deep voice grumbled into John's shoulder.  
  


 

_'How about we get your exhausted body onto a comfortable mattress and continue like this until we fall asleep?'_   
  


 

_'Sounds delicious.'_

Sherlock said, looking up.

His eyes were heavy-lidded but still able to see an equal exhaustion in John's features.

_'Are you alright?'_

He sat up properly, concerned.  
  


 

_'Fine._

_Just...'_   
  


 

_'John.'_

Sherlock placed a hand onto his.  
  


 

_'I...'_

He took a reassuring breath.

_'A client showed up today._

_There was nothing, I-'_

John tried to clarify but Sherlock waved him off.

The idea of John doing anything of that sort after their conversation this morning utterly ridiculous.  
  


 

_'I know._

_Did he bother you?_

_I told him to leave._

_He-'_

Sherlock said.  
  


 

_'You saw him?'_

John interjected.  
  


 

_'Yes, well, I didn't really pay him much attention but it was clear from his posture what he had in mind walking up towards your door.'_   
  


 

_'Right._

_So you told him what?'_

John intertwined their fingers.  
  


 

_''Fuck off', basically._

_Well, I phrased it a bit differently.'_

His eyes snapped up to look at John, suddenly afraid he'd done something wrong.

 

 

_'I hope that was alright._

_I meant to safe you the trouble-'_   
  


 

_'Shh, love.'_

John whispered and leaned in to kiss Sherlock.

 

_'Perfectly fine._

_He rang the bell anyway and I suppose I was just a bit taken aback to see him._

_I'd really forgotten about him.'_   
  


 

_'What did he do?'_

  
  
_'He...he seemed to take it quite well._

_And yet, I don't know._

_It just feels...odd?'_   
  


 

_'You are concerned that your clients will be disappointed or angry with you.'_   
  


 

_'Basically, in a way, I suppose I am.'_

John admitted, not meeting Sherlock's eyes.  
  


 

_'Hey.'_

The detective said, lifting John's face by placing a finger under his chin.

_'That's alright._

_You know that your clients- well, they need you in a way, don't they?_

_Maybe not to the ridiculous extend that I need you, but anyway._

_You reject them now, one by one, and you know what that feels like and you don't like to make them feel that way._

_There's no need to look at me like that._

_Do you think I am angry because you care about those people?'_   
  


 

_'I...I don't know._

_A bit?'_   
  


 

_'You foolish man._

_It's the reason I love you._

_You are the most perfect human being I have ever known and you chose me to be the lucky man that gets to sleep next to you at night._

_Holding you close, kissing your nose, smelling your hair, feeling your-'_

And then Sherlock stopped in his tracks, realizing what he had just said.  
  


 

John looked at him with a mixture of love, awe and shock on his face.

Clearly touched by the sentiment he leaned forward once again and kissed Sherlock hard.

Moments passed by, where they passionately embraced and caressed each other's lips with their own until they broke apart, panting.  
  


_'I...I didn't really intend to say that just yet.'_

Sherlock whispered, his forehead against John's.  
  


 

_'But I'm so glad you did.'_

John's voice was shaking just a little bit.  
  


 

_'I love you, John._

_There, I said it again.'_

And Sherlock smiled as if he had just had some kind of revelation.

Like a child discovering they were capable of something completely unexpected.  
  


 

_'And I couldn't love you more, Sherlock._

_It's physically impossible.'_

John said with a wink and kissed him again.

Minutes, that felt like hours, later, when their lips were red and puffy, John pulled back, fingers still curled around Sherlock's neck, holding him close.

 

 

_'So, off to bed and to some of that holding and kissing you mentioned?'_   
  


 

_'With the greatest pleasure.'_

Sherlock purred and took John's hand standing up.


	15. Fuck Them

They slowly undressed each other.

John taking his time opening the buttons on Sherlock's shirt and stroking the exposed skin as he uncovered it bit by bit.

Sherlock, in the meantime, kissed and nibbled John's face and neck, pushing the fabric of his jumper out of the way.

With his chest bare he dropped to his knees and began to open John's jeans with care.

The zip pulled down, the trousers fell along with the pants underneath and Sherlock nuzzled John's newly exposed crotch.

Taking a deep breath, he hummed, all the while John stood, helplessly gaping down at Sherlock's curly head and roaming his hands gently, lovingly over the curve of his shoulders.  
  


 

_'How?_

_How can we be so lucky, Sherlock?_

_After all the-'_

He sighed, because Sherlock wrapped his fingers around his penis.

_'-all the awful things that happened?_

_I hate to say that, but I sometimes get so overwhelmed with fear that I'll lose this-'_

 

_'Shut up.'_

Sherlock ordered and looked up at him intently.

John blinked at him.  
  


 

_'John, I know what you mean._

_Trust me, I know exactly what you mean, but I don't want to waste our time together feeling afraid._

_We've been afraid for too long._

_It's up to us to keep this alive._

_And I will allow no one and nothing to come between us or take this away from us again._

_I have finally found-'_

He looked at the ground for a second, as if searching for the right word.

He looked for courage.

 

_'I have finally found everything I want and need in you._

_I'll be absolutely monstrous to everyone threating that._

_I am posessive, John._

_I hope you do not have a problem with that.'_   
  


 

_'Not in the least, love._

_And I agree with you._

_I'm sorry._

_I'd rather spend our time reassuring each other that it's not a dream.'_   
  


 

_'Yes.'_

Was all Sherlock added before his mouth descended on John's cock.  
  


 

 

* * *

  
_'FUUUUUCK!'_

John exclaimed, writhing on the sheets, grabbing at them with clumsy, uncoordinated hands.  
  


 

_'John...'_

Sherlock purred, and gave his penis another lick.  
  


 

_'Sherlock, I love you._

_God help me, don't you ever leave meeeeeee...'_

He moaned.  
  


 

_'Not ever, John._

_John...I want you._

_John._

_Please.'_

Sherlock put his head on John's tummy, staring up at his face with eyes shining with joy and lust.  
  


_'John._

_Fuck me, please._

_Like we used to.'_

He begged.  
  


 

_'Oh lord.'_

John sighed and carded his right hand through Sherlock's curls.

_'Of course I will._

_Rough and relentless?'_   
  


 

_'Let's call it passionate, posessive and loving.'_

The deep voice suggested as Sherlock crawled up John's body, leaving kisses all over the skin he passed.

_'Let's 'make love' as they say.'_   
  


 

_'They?'_

John countered with a playful chuckle.  
  


 

_'Clearly we are a class of our own, John._

_Look at us._

_The soldier and the detective.'_   
  


 

_'Yin and yang?'_   
  


 

_'Not in a black and white/opposites of each other way._

_I see fractals of myself in you and the other way around._

_I discover more and more of your warmth within me.'_

Sherlock kissed his cheek sweetly.  
  


 

_'You are beautiful.'_

John looked up at him dreamily, now both hands in Sherlock's hair, cradling his head.  
  


 

_'You are.'_

Sherlock murmured, utter adoration in his eyes.

 

 

_'Milk and honey.'_

John whispered as he ducked to kiss Sherlock's neck.  
  


 

_'Sorry, what?'_   
  


 

_'We are milk and honey._

_Comforting, sweet, soothing._

_And best when combined._

_You and me._

_Milk and honey.'_   
  


 

_'I love you._

_How can I love you so much without combusting?'_

Sherlock stared at John with wondrous eyes and caressed his cheek with his long, elegant fingers, mirroring John's touches.  
  


 

_'Now that you've said it once, you can't say it enough, can you?'_

He asked with a big smile plastered on his face.

_'I love you, too._

_Keep telling me._

_I love you, Sherlock._

_I'm so glad I found you.'_   
  


 

_'Me too, John._

_I do not believe in the concept of god or fate but everything in this universe has a counterpart._

_Light, darkness, fire, water, protons, electrons.'_   
  


 

_'You are my scientist.'_

John murmured, drunk on love.  
  


 

_'Quarks and anti-quarks._

_Every dark moment is followed by a brighter one._

_Everything gets evened out eventually._

_We found each other to do just that._

_Blend over the darkness of our past with each other's light.'_   
  


 

_'Love._

_My love._

_It's the most beautiful thing to see you smile._

_I remember the way you looked when you first came to me.'_   
  


 

And they both remained silent for a moment, contemplating.

Remembering.  
  


 

When John had received a message on his website asking for a meet-up.  
  
When John opened the door that evening and Sherlock stood in front of him.

On the brink of tears but not showing it.

Having spent three hours curled up in his bath tub to muster the confidence to even come here.  
  
How they had sat on the sofa, Gladstone at John's feet, drinking the wine John had offered, and getting to know each other.  
  


 

_'I have scars.'_

Sherlock had said and John had nodded.

_'Physical as well as emotional ones._

_I have been-'_   
  


 

_'No need to get into detail if you don't want to.'_

John had interrupted him.  
  


 

_'This is supposed to be based on trust.'_

Sherlock pointed out.

 

 

_'Yes.'_   
  


 

_'I was abused._

_That's all you need to know._

_I'm sure you can make something of that as a doctor.'_  
  
And John had stopped midway of lifting his glass to his lips, looking at Sherlock in surprise.  
  


 

_'How-'_   
  


 

_'I'm a detective._

_Scotland Yard._

_I am quite observant._

_When I'm not being completely oblivious to ' normal human behaviour'.'_

Sherlock had air-quoted the last bit with venom in his voice.  
  


 

_'Says who?'_

John took a sip of wine.  
  


 

_'Oh, basically everyone I ever met._

_Mostly my colleagues at the Yard these days.'_   
  


 

_'Fuck them.'_

John had simply said.  
  


 

And now Sherlock had stopped in his tracks.

_'Pardon me?'_

He'd blurted in disbelieve.  
  


 

_'Fuck them._

_From your body language and that...skill you just showed, I'd say you're somewhere on the autistic spectrum, probably Asperger's?_

_Wasn't my strongest subject in uni._

_But anyway, I say that what you have is clearly a gift._

_And what did I ever get for being nice?_

_Getting shot for Queen and Country and then discharged honourably but with fuck all to live on._

_**Thank you.** _

_**Goodbye.** _

_**Sorry for almost killing you twice.** _

_**Now scuttle and feel like a war hero while you struggle with PTSD on your own.** _

_Fuck them I say._

_Be who you are._

_Whoever dislikes you for it, won't be your friend no matter how much you twist and bend your own personality.'_   
  


 

After that little outburst there had been a moment of silence.

And Sherlock, although unconsciously, had probably fallen a bit in love with John in this exact moment.

In retrospect, this first conversation had laid the path for their future.

A future together.  
  


 

_'Thank you.'_

Sherlock had answered after that moment.  
  


 

_'What for?'_   
  


 

_'Being so honest._

_I...appreciate that in a person._

_Very much.'_

And he had avoided his eyes and busied himself with his glass.  
  


 

_'Always.'_   
  


 

_'Good.'_   
  


 

_'Now._

_Do you want to...?'_

John had asked cautiously.  
  


 

_'No.'_   
  


 

_'No?'_

No one had said no before.  
  


 

_'John, I am a broken person._

_I have trust issues, I am traumatised, which I do not have to elaborate on with you, I'm sure._

_I am difficult to be around by default and even more so when I'm on edge and I'm easily put on edge._

_I just asked you to have sex with me for money, although that is exactly part of why I got traumatised in the first place._

_**Now** I want you to think this through **very** thoroughly before we start and if you rather not, which I could understand all too well, then please do tell me now, so that we can stop here and I will not be subject to rejection and hurt once again. _

_But **if** you are still willing to enter this 'agreement' by tomorrow night, then I'll be happy to come.'_   
  


 

And then John had burst out laughing at Sherlock's choice of words and felt horrible because he didn't want the other man to think he laughed about his problems.

But Sherlock had joined in and they had continued getting to know each other, although on a very platonic, impersonal level, half the night.

When Sherlock had stepped out of John's door, he had been kissed goodbye on the cheek and reassured that John would call him by tomorrow afternoon.  
  


He had held true to his word.

And Sherlock had looked forward to lie in John's arms all day.

Not knowing why, Sherlock had anticipated being comforted by that man.

That soldier.

And he had slept that next night, like he hadn't slept in months.  
  
  


 

* * *

 

_'Fuck them.'_

Sherlock murmured into John's shoulder, recalling that first night.

 

John chuckled, his belly bouncing in delight.

_'I actually said that.'_   
  


 

_'You did._

_You we're very charming that night.'_   
  


 

_'Not my vocabulary.'_

John corrected.  
  


 

_'I didn't mind._

_Still don't mind.'_

His lips seeking John's.  
  


 

_'Well then._

_Want me to fuck you?'_   
  


 

_'Yes, please._

_Captain.'_

Sherlock added as an afterthought and John's eyes lit up with lust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now my boss has offered me a two-year prolongation and the cycle begins anew. I am SO BLOODY german in that I want to play safe but I am at the same time SO SICK OF PLAYING SAFE and missing out on so many wonderful things life has in store.   
> Sorry for ranting, I hope you enjoyed this chapter and I can get back to you with more soon.  
> Until then, stay safe, stay nerdy, and don't give up on your dreams!


	16. The Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John receives a phone call that turns his world upside down.  
> Sherlock needs John more than ever.  
> They both have to deal with their pain alone.  
> And it threatens to break them apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! JESUS CHRIST! I cannot apologise enough for not updating- I know WIPs are a pain in the arse!  
> If it is any consolation to you- I decided in late September to change my life completely, essentially quit my job, leave my family and home behind and move to England. As you can imagine a lot of soul-searching was involved, planning ensued and with all this I couldn't possibly find the nerves to write. Now that I have settled in, I hope I will be able to update regularly and give you what you want ;)
> 
> To those who haven't given up on me- THANK YOU FOR STICKING AROUND!

 

 

 

 

When John woke up the next morning, he found himself alone yet again.

This time though, a tiny piece of paper was tucked under his hand, resting on his stomach.

He blinked several times to get his eyes to focus on the neat scrawl that was clearly Sherlock's handwriting.  


 

_'I am sorry, my sweet, but murder won't wait until after breakfast._

_I hate to leave you here and make you wake alone, but it can't be helped._

_I will make up to you for it._

_Promise._   
  
_I kiss you, John, in my thoughts._

_I hope you can feel it._   


_Faithfully YOURS,_

_Sherlock'_   


 

John's face couldn't decide whether to blush, touched by the words or to smile at his lover's use of sentimental words.

Who would have known that under that hard, aloof and very scarred shell lived a perfectly unmarred soul, that still hadn't lost his faith in the power and value of true romance?  
  
Sighing heavily, John pushed the duvet off himself and got out of bed.

With a stupidly happy smile on his face, he padded into the kitchen and set up some coffee for himself.

Then he filled Gladstone's bowl, who had trodded in after him from the living room, licking his bare calves as he knelt down.  


 

_'Oh another lover of mine._

_Thank you, darling, but I'd much prefer a proper shower.'_

He said, scratching his dog's ears affectionately.  


 

He collected the paper from the front door and returned to the kitchen, poured himself a mug of black coffee and went into the living room to settle on the sofa.

As he did so, he found his phone lying on the seat, the little LED in the top corner blinking angrily.  
  
As he unlocked his phone, he saw that he had twenty-two missed calls from his mother.  
  
A heavy feeling of dread suddenly washed over him.  


Harry.  


The skin of his neck started prickling and a cold shiver took hold of him.

He knew that feeling too well to think he could just ignore it.

His subconscious was trying to prepare him for danger and his body reacted accordingly.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he forced himself to breathe steadily.

Ten seconds passed, twenty and the sudden sound of Gladstone shoving at his bowl almost made him jump out of his skin.

It couldn't be helped, couldn't be avoided.

He had to face whatever horrors awaited him at the other end of the line.

He pressed the call button and waited.

When the connection was made it only took his mother to say his name to tell him that this would be a long day.

And possibly a very long night as well.  
  


* * *

 

 

_'So you are trying to tell us that you 'deduced' all of that from the fact that there were no scratches on the lock?'_   


 

_'No, scratches in the layer of corrosion on the lock.'_

Sherlock corrected.  


 

_'Whatever. That's bollocks!_

_Greg, do you seriously believe a word of what he's saying?'_

Henderson bellowed.  


 

_'I trust him, he's never been wrong in all the time we've worked together._

_And it makes sense._

_Explains all the facts, actually.'_

Greg said slightly defensively.

He was tired of everyone always picking on his partner.

God, Sherlock might be weird and arrogant at times, yes, but no one except him had ever bothered to sit down with the man and just let him explain his lines of thought.

If you met the man with respect and actually listened to what he had to say, he was a perfectly nice bloke.

And despite his own scepticism at the start, Greg was damn proud to have Sherlock as his partner.  


 

_'He's a loony!_

_Look at him!_

_Look at his face!_

_He thinks we're all stupid, doesn't he?_

_Like he's something better._

_You got here for whatever reason and you think you can behave like the king of the Yard?_

_Because of your 'powers of deduction'?_

_I read that blog of yours, you lost it quite a while ago!'_

Winslow cried, laughing manically and even pointing.  


 

_'Shut up._

_I'm warning you.'_

Sherlock growled.  


 

_'Boys-'_

Greg tried to get everyone to calm down.

_'We are all in the same boat, we all just want to-'_   


 

_'He's so far in a different boat, I don't even know!'_

Mitchell cheered.  


 

Sherlock stood, breathing hard and the muscles in his jaw twitching.  


 

_'Oh, you upset now?_

_Look at him!'_   


 

_'Henderson!'_

Greg shouted.  


 

_'Look! Look!_

_He looks like he's about to cry or jump at my throat or both._

_Do you feel like crying, freak?'_

Mitchell asked.  


 

Sherlock spun around and turned his back at them like a petulant child.

He knew what it looked like, but he couldn't face their mocking faces any longer.  


 

_'Greg.'_

He said.

His voice cold and controlled.  


 

_'Sherlock- you shut up, you eejits!_

_Sherlock?'_

And Greg took a few steps towards him.  


 

_'Would you excuse me?_

_Am I dismissed?'_

Sherlock whispered, still desperately trying to keep a calm demeanor.  


 

_'Of course._

_I'll join you in a second AFTER I'VE PUT THESE BASTARDS HERE IN THEIR PLACES.'_

Greg added loudly, so that everyone outside could hear him as well.  


 

_'Oh, is he running away?_

_Like a little girl?_

_Did we hurt his feelings?'_

Winslow said.  


 

_'He doesn't have any, does he?_

_But a temper though._

_But I doubt he could hold his own in a proper fight._

_Would you like to try, Sherly?_

_I never see you in the gym, but one never knows._

_Could be fun!'_

Henderson began.  


 

_'Yeah, he never goes to the gym._

_Maybe he's scared of showing his willie to us in the shower._

_Wow, look at his eyes!_

_Should be locked up, that freak!'_   


 

Sherlock shook with anger and pure hatred.

His fingers were clenched into fists and his nails digging into his palms.

 

_'Why would I want to go to the gym and see your deformed bodies?_

_Why would I want to waste a single second of my time with you?_

_Why would I want to even breathe the same air as you?'_

Sherlock snarled and took a step forward.  


 

_'Sherlock, you better get to the office now.'_

Lestrade said taking a precautious step towards him.  


 

_'Yes, why would you?'_

Mitchell said.

_'Or are you scared we could touch you were it's naughty?'_

And a bellow of laughter followed.  


 

_'You better not dare to touch me, you-'_   


 

_'Woah! We what?_

_What would you call us, Sherl?_

_Do you have a problem with men touching men?_

_Have a little fun in the shower, shall we?_

_We could be so good to you! Ha ha!'_

Henderson wiped at his eyes, as he was crying with laughter.  


 

_'SHUT UP!_

_I will not tolerate such things in my division!_

_You three will all report to the Superintendent._

_There will be a report. Sherlock, go to the office._

_NOW!'_

Greg shouted, his face red and his eyes wild.

If it would be in his power these three scumbags would be queueing in front of the job centre tomorrow morning.

Unfortunately all he could do was to get Sherlock to calm down and maybe give him the afternoon off.

As this was just one in a series of incidents of this sort.  


 

_'If anyone of you ever dares to touch even an inch of me, you will regret it, I promise.'_

Sherlock said as he opened the door.

He threw one last glance back at Greg and slammed the door shut after himself.  


 

_'Well done.'_

Greg said sarcastically and walked towards the door.

When he was already outside, but the door still open, he heard:  


_'Do you think he's a poofter?'_   


* * *

 

John stormed along the corridor of the hospital in search of his mother.  


_'John!_

_Oh, Johnny!'_

He heard her familiar voice, turning the corner.  


 

_'Mum!_

_Where is she?_

_What's happened?'_

He asked, grabbing his mother in a bear hug.  


 

_'Oh, she walked back home from the pub, considerate she was not to take a car, but foolish enough to cross the street without properly looking!_

_A car, John!_

_They- they won't tell me more!'_

And then a sob erupted from her and she buried her face in John's shoulder, crying.

John held her, cradling her head against himself and muttering reaffirming words while looking around for a doctor or nurse he could ask for information.  
  


* * *

  
  
_'Sherlock, are you-'_

Greg began as he stepped through the office door.

His line of thought slammed to a halt as he saw Sherlock, arms wrapped around his knees, sitting in the far corner of their office, clearly trying to hide.  


_'Shit, Sherlock!'_

He exclaimed, mindful to close the door and lock it and also make sure the blinds to the outer office were shut.  
  
He slowly approached his partner, who had his head resting on his knees, not acknowledging his presence at all.

He crouched before him and called his name again.  


_'Sherlock._

_I'm here._

_It's me- Greg._

_Hey...'_

He carefully tried to place a reassuring hand onto Sherlock's arm, but the second he touched him, Sherlock's head snapped up and with his eyes wild, he shoved Greg away and tried to get up and away from him as fast as he could.  


 

_'DO NOT TOUCH ME!'_

He hissed and looked around desperately as if searching for an escape route.  


 

_'Sherlock, I'm sorry._

_Look, I'm not touching you._

_I'm your friend._

_I'm sorry!'_   


 

Sherlock's head snapped in Greg's direction and he spat:

_'I don't have friends!'_

But a second later, his eyes suddenly focused again, a bewildered expression took hold of his face and he blinked rapidly.  
  
 _'Greg?'_

He asked dumbfounded, as if he only just realized the other man was there.  


 

_'Hey...You...ok?'_

Greg asked, hesitantly.  


 

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, taking deep breaths.

His hand came up to pinch the bridge of his nose- a habit he had taken on from John.

It took him a moment to recall that Greg had addressed him with a question.

 

_'Me?_

_Yeah._

_Fine.'_

He spun around and looked at the floor, confused.  


 

_'You should go home, mate._

_Come on, I can drive you.'_   


 

_'What?'_

Sherlock focused on Greg's words- his face.  


 

_'Sherlock, you're having a nervous- I don't know._

_Let me help._

_Let me bring you home and I don't know._

_Force a cup of tea into you.'_   


 

_'Nobody forces anything-'_

And suddenly Sherlock's mouth snapped shut, mindful not to reveal his secret in this moment of weakness.

He cleared his throat awkwardly and began anew.

_'Thank you, Greg, I'd very much appreciate that._

_You're...you're a good friend.'_   


 

_'Am I?'_

Greg quipped but smiled.

Something clearly wasn't right with Sherlock, something had traumatized this man, he knew it.

He'd seen one victim of violence too many not to make that connection.

He didn't ask though.

If Sherlock ever wanted to let him know, he would when he was ready.

Greg was not going to push.  


 

They took their coats and headed to the car park, spending the ten minute drive in silence until Greg pulled up at Sherlock's block of flats.  


_'Thank you, Gregory.'_

Sherlock mumbled, too embarrassed to look the other man in the eye.

 

_'Hey, it's nothing.'_

Greg replied gently and then, after a moment where Sherlock seemed reluctant to get out alone:  
  
 _'Sherlock, please don't get this wrong- I know something is bothering you and it's none of my business, but if there is anything I can do to help you...prevent such a thing from happening again- tell me, please._

_We are partners._

_I hate seeing you like this._

_Honestly.'_   


 

Sherlock took a deep, unstable breath through his nose and released it.

Closing his eyes he mustered up all the courage he had in this very moment.  


_'I think it's for the best if you don't know._

_It wouldn't be fair to burden anyone else with this._

_Thank- thank you for your offer._

_I really appreciate it._

_You, I mean._

_I appreciate that you are nice to me.'_   


 

And Greg flinched internally, because the way Sherlock had said those words...

There couldn't be many people in Sherlock's life who treated him with the love and respect he deserved.

Greg felt an overwhelming urge to hug the man, but held back.

This wouldn't help at all, judging by Sherlock's reaction earlier in the office.  


_'We're partners and I trust you with my life, Sherlock._

_And I just hope you do, too._

_I'm here._

_If ever you need me, outside of the yard I mean, please know that I'm just a phone call away, alright?'_   


 

Sherlock swallowed audibly and fiddled with his scarf.

_'Okay.'_

He whispered and dared to take a look at Greg's face.

What he saw was genuine concern and the offer to help.

A friend.

Another one.

How?  


_'You are...a good man._

_I'll see you tomorrow.'_   


 

_'Of course._

_Take care.'_

Greg watched as Sherlock walked up to the front door and fumbled for his keys.

The moment he was inside, Greg's face fell and concern washed over him anew.  


 

* * *

  
  
_'Excuse me!_

_Nurse, excuse me!_

_Hello. I'm Doctor John Watson, Harry Watson is my sister?_

_Can you-'_

His voice broke.

_'Can you tell me something?_

_Anything at all?'_   


 

The nurse looked through the stack of papers she was holding.

_'She's still in surgery._

_Intensive care unit is prepared._

_I'm afraid I can't tell you anything else or when you'll be able to see her._

_I'm sorry.'_   


 

_'Don't be._

_I- I know how it works._

_Thank you.'_

He turned around and walked over to where his mother was wringing her hands in her lap, worry clearly visible on her face and in her posture.  


 

_'And?'_

She meant to get to her feet, but John signaled her to remain seated.  


 

_'They can't say anything at the moment._

_I'm sorry, mum.'_   


 

_'But you're a doctor!_

_They can tell you!'_

Beth Watson protested.  


 

_'Mum, yes._

_I'm a doctor, but she's still in surgery and they can only tell when they've finished.'_   


 

_'Oh my god!'_

His mother exclaimed and crumpled against his shoulder.  
  


* * *

  
  
Sherlock opened the door to his flat- no, mental note, his former flat, the one he still paid for, but didn't use- and just stood inside the sitting room staring into nowhere.  
  
This was intolerable.

He had always managed to keep control inside the yard.

He'd gotten better at controlling it in general.

The outbursts were fewer and less intense, the image of John, the memory of his scent, his voice preventing him now to fall deeper and deeper into the rabbit hole of his subconscious.  


John.

Need him.

John.  


What was he doing here anyway?

Ah, Greg had taken him to what he thought was still his flat.

Of course- he didn't know.  
  
He reached into his pocket and retrieved his phone.  
  
John...  


 

* * *

  
  
_'Dr Watson?'_

A female voice called into the waiting area.

 

_'Yes!_

_Right here!'_

John answered and practically jumped out of his seat.

His back as straight as if he was on parade, he strode forward to meet Harry's surgeon.

 

_'Dr Watson, Mrs Watson?_

_First things first- she's stable now._

_We brought her into intensive care because she suffered some severe injuries to the head and chest area._

_We had to sedate her, as you probably already guessed._

_We'll have to wait and see._

_That's all we can do at the moment._

_She'll come back around in her own time.'_

 

John's mum made a wailing noise, so John wrapped his left arm around her waist for support.

With an apologetic look and a grateful nod, he turned away from the surgeon and led his mother back to their chairs.

 

_'Mum, look at me._

_Look at me!'_

He cradled her head in both hands.

After a moment she opened her eyes, tears running down her cheeks, smearing her mascara.

 

_'John, what are we going to do?'_

She sobbed.

 

_'We go to her and we talk to her while we wait._

_She'll hear us.'_

 

_'What if she doesn't wake up?'_

 

_'Mum, the surgeon said that she's stable, so we'll trust her on that._

_And if there's one thing I learned in that desert, mum, it's never to give up hope._

_Never, ever give up hope.'_   


 

* * *

  
  
_'John?_

_Erm, John?_

_Are you there?_

_Of course not, I'm talking to your voicemail._

_John, look, I...I had a terrible day._

_Can- can you come?_

_Home to me, I mean?_

_I need you._

_Where are you?_

_Why-?_

_Look, I'm-_

_Sorry, this is stupid.'_  
  
Frustrated, Sherlock shoved his phone back into his pocket and went into the little niché that represented his kitchen.

In the top left cupboard he knew, was still some bourbon he'd inherited from the previous tenant.

He opened it and took a long drag straight from the bottle.

Then he turned to the sink and poured the rest of it down the drain.

Just to be sure.

Not going to take any risks.

With the alcohol churning like acid in his stomach, he groaned.

After a moment, he bent over and emptied the contents of his stomach into the sink as well.


	17. A Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds a note from Sherlock.  
> It breaks his heart all over again.

It was 1:52 when Harry's heart rate picked up speed.

At 2:04 she blinked her eyes open gingerly.

At 5:06 John stepped over the threshold of his flat.  
  
  


* * *

  
Sherlock lay inside his bathtub, curled up underneath a blanket and silently snoring.

His right hand tucked under his cheek, legs drawn up, he tried to make himself as small as possible.

He did not hear Greg ringing the doorbell at quarter past eight (disconnected, annoying when being in a mind palace).

He did not hear the knocking, the calling of his name or the ring of his mobile.

Neither did he hear it as Greg picked the lock.  
  


_'Sherlock? Sorry, mate but I'm worried as fuck! Why don't you answer your phone? Where-?'_

 

And for the second time in one day, Greg's train of thought slammed to a halt.

The flat was a mess.

Clothes, papers, blankets and pillows strewn everywhere.

The smell of vomit wafting through the air of the tiny flat.

But Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

Greg checked the kitchen, the bedroom and lastly he opened the door to the bathroom, bracing himself for the worst.

Images of razorblades and bloodsmeared procelain racing through his mind.

He had seen too fucking much over the years.

And if he was honest with himself- Sherlock was a very secretive person.

He didn't know how he would cope with the bullying at work on top of all the other stuff that obviously troubled him.

The way he had reacted today?

Greg had no idea what to expect when he turned the knob of the door.  
  


For a moment, his heart stopped as he saw Sherlock lying curled up in the bathtub.

Then his mind processed the blanket (who would take a blanket with them when they cut their wrists?) and the gentle snoring.  
  


 

_'Sherlock?'_

He said softly, as not to startle the other man.  
  


Sherlock's face scrunched up in discomfort.

He hadn't done this in a while and the cold porcelain was an unforgiving surface to sleep on.  
  
As his mind slowly came back online, he recognised Greg's silhouette in the doorway and blinked a couple of times to clear his head.  
  


 

'Gregory?'

His voice was raspy.

The bourbon.

The vomit.

The sobbing.  
  


 

_'Sherlock, my god, what's going on?_

_Come here.'_

He strode towards the bathtub and helped Sherlock get up and out.  
  


Once that was achieved he finally caught his partner in a bear hug, relief washing through him to see that he was alright.

He didn't recognise the way Sherlock went rigid in his arms.  
  


 

_'Greg.'_

Sherlock said, cautiously.

A nervous edge to his voice now, too.  
  


 

_'Jesus, Sherlock._

_You scared me.'_  
  


 

_'Greg, please.'_  
  


 

_'I thought you were-'_  
  


 

_'Greg, I'm begging you, let me go!'_

And Sherlock started to shove at the other man.  
  


 

_'What-?'_

Greg stared at him dumbfounded as Sherlock hastily stepped away from him, the moment he let go.

Snatching the blanket, Sherlock crept into the farest corner from where Greg was standing, a look on his face, like a deer caught in the lights.

Or a very frightened, little boy.  
  


 

_'Shit! Sorry! Fuck!'_

Greg exclaimed and took a step back, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. 

 

_'Sherlock, I'm sorry._

_I- I just worried about you all day long, I mean, the way you reacted in the office and- Are you alright?'_

He inclined his head and tilted his chin down, trying not to appear intimidating or threating to the other man. 

Sherlock clearly was afraid of touch.

Damn fucking hell.

Child abuse?  
  


 

_'No._

_But there is nothing anyone could do for me, it just has to pass._

_You do not need to worry._

_It- it is nothing unfamiliar.'_

Sherlock explained, his voice little more than a whisper.

 

_'I'm sure you've made your deductions by now._

_I will neither confirm nor deny them, I simply do not wish to discuss it at all._

_I have managed on my own so far and I do not intend to change that._

_Please understand and respect this.'_

He did not meet Greg's eyes.  
  


 

_'Of course.'_

Greg shuffled his feet a little awkwardly.

 

_'You...need help cleaning up the mess, maybe?_

_I just think some company might do you good._

_We don't have to talk._

_Although we could talk about the case, if that distracts you?'_

He said, a hopeful note to his voice.

He desperately wanted to help his partner.

It was ingrained in Greg's bones.

The role of the big brother.

And now he remembered Sherlock mentioning his own over-bearing one.  
  


_'Or tell me to fuck off._

_That's alright._

_Just- let me know that you are alive?'_  
  
  


* * *

 

  
_'Harry...Can you hear me?'_

John whispered, rubbing his thumb soothingly over his sister's forehead.  
  
_'It's me, Johnno._

_Mum's here, too.'_  
  


 

_'Oh my little girl!'_

Beth moaned quietly from behind him.  
  


 

_'Listen,'_

John leaned in to whisper into his sister's ear.

_'I know you're in there, I'm sure you can hear me- somehow, I've seen it happen before._

_Take your time, no rush, alright?_

_We want you to come back safe, but all in due time._

_Don't strain yourself._

_We are here and we won't leave you._

_You are not alone, Harry._

_I swear to you, I will not leave your side until you open your beautiful eyes for me, okay?'_  
  
He brushed the hair from her forehead and placed a tender kiss to her cheek.

Then he rested his head on the edge of the mattress and started to hum the melody of 'Wonderwall'- Harry's favourite song when they were young.

John knew it would help.

He'd sung nursery rhymes to soldiers recovering from the anethesia of an amputation, bleeding out under his hands...  
  
He'd experienced it himself- had once heard the faint voice of Murray as he pushed a pack of gauze to John's shoulder and practically sat on him to get the bleeding under control.

He'd heard him and it had been an anchor for John to keep breathing, keep going, because there was someone there with him, he was not alone and somehow the voice singing that music had reached him in a much more intimate way than words could have ever done.  
  


_'I don't believe that anybody feels the way I do about you now...'_  
  
John's voice was shaking but he kept on singing, kept going to let his sister know that he was there.

If it also helped to block out his mother's distressed wailing, it was all the same to him.  
  


 

* * *

  
  
  
_'This place is...'_

Greg couldn't really find words to describe the state of the flat.  
  


 

_'It's a drug den.'_

Sherlock dead-panned, putting a pillow back onto the sofa/bed.  
  


Greg stared at him with his eyebrows raised until Sherlock acknowledged his silence.  
  


 

_'Oh, please, you can smell it in every corner of the building._

_It's practically vaporizing off the wallpaper.'_  
  


 

_'Nice. Yes._

_How did you end up here again?'_

Greg asked, tongue in cheek.

 

  
_'It is cheap, conveniently located and no one bothers me because its full of smackheads who are too far gone to even remember their own name._

_I wouldn't exactly call it nice, but it serves its purpose._

_I don't intend to stay here for much longer anyway._

_God knows my brother's blood pressure rises with every minute I spend here.'_  
  


 

Greg laughed out loud at this and handed Sherlock another pillow to put onto the sofa/bed/whatever.

Acknowledging Sherlock's words, Greg turned to look at him, his expression blank.

His partner moved to pick up a stained blanket and, not seeing Greg's face, responded to his unspoken question.  
  


 

_'There has been a time and a place once, yes._

_It is a chapter of my life of which I am not in the least proud and would like to erase from my memory._

_Along with the memories that led me to...'_

He spat the word out as if it tasted bitter.

_'...use'_  
  


 

_'I'm sorry, Sherlock, I didn't mean to-'_  
  


 

_'Yes, you did, and it's alright._

_But I can assure you, Greg, it's over._

_I have decided not to allow my past to destroy any possibility of me having a future._

_I am much better than I once thought I could ever be and I have no intention to ever go back._

_Rest assured that I have learnt my lesson._

_The hard way.'_

He added as an afterthought, and this time Greg cringed quite obviously.

The way in which Sherlock talked about all of this, his past, his secrets- it was hauntingly airy.  
  


 

_'I'm glad you are here now._

_I mean, stronger and...'_  
  


 

_'I see what you're trying to say, Greg.'_

He flopped onto the sofa/bed/whatever/mattress.

_'Thank you._

_Now I don't want to keep you any longer._

_Your wife and kids will be waiting with dinner._

_You helped me a lot.'_  
  


 

Greg rubbed the back of his neck with his hand and nodded.

_'Alright, if you need anything- someone to listen, to kick you in the butt, my god, a humane place to sleep- give us a call, will you?'_  
  


 

_'Sure.'_

Sherlock said, actually smiling and getting to his feet, seeing his partner out.  
  
When Greg had left and driven off to have a nice family dinner with his cheating wife and his boring kids, Sherlock retrieved the suitcase with which he had once arrived and stuffed every possession that was dear to him inside.

Without looking back, he closed the door to his ruddy apartment and took the tube towards Notting Hill- his new home with John.  
  
  


* * *

 

  
John came home shortly after 5 in the morning.

Shoulders slumped, despite the relief he felt.

He closed the door quietly behind himself and leaned heavily against it.  
  
What a day.  
  
His injured shoulder was cramped, his neck hurt from looking down at a hospital bed for hours, sleeping in a position his back had yet to forgive him for and worrying.

His head was pounding, his eyes burning and all he wanted was to go to sleep.

Rubbing a hand over his face, he drew a deep breath and started his way towards the kitchen.  
  
What he found there, stopped him in his tracks.  
  


An open bottle of wine was sitting on the island, two plates laid out, one of them used with the cutlery on top.

What caught John's attention was the piece of paper, propped against that bottle of wine, with his name on it.

The whole scene looked, for lack of a better word, abandoned.

Lost.  
  
John's heart clenched painfully.  
  


Sherlock.  
  


 

He frowned, breathing heavily out through his nose and went to look at the note his partner had left behind.  
  


He's mad at me.

Dear God, I forgot about him.

Completely and utterly left him behind.  
  


He'd set his phone to flight mode as soon as he had reached the hospital.

Not really in concern for the medical equipment but because he didn't want to be disturbed while coping with his sister's critical condition.  
  
And apparently that included Sherlock, he chastised himself.  
  
He pulled his phone out of his pocket and saw that the battery had died.

Probably a while ago, as he hadn't charged it the night before.  
  
With a sigh he walked up to the kitchen island and picked up the note.  
  
It read:  
  


  
**The breath we share, the look on your face as you sink into me.**  
  
**I am addicted.**  
  
**Kiss me, scratch me.**

**Press your fingers into my skin until I scream.**  
  
**I stare into your eyes and I see pain.**

**But I cannot bring myself to look away.**  
  
**Hurt me.**

**Take me hard.**

**Take my breath away with the intensity of your thrusts.**

**Slam your hips against mine and hear me moan.**

**I am yours.**

**Yours to take.**  
  
**Kiss me.**

**Brush my sweat-drenched fringe out of my eyes.**

**Tell me- tell me that I'm brilliant.**

**Whisper my name.**

**Kiss me again.**  
  
**Lie next to me.**

**Let me hear you breathe as you sleep.**  
  
**Peace.**

**You are a soldier.**

**A peace-maker.**

**You bring me peace.**  
  
**Save me.**

**Save me from myself and catch my wrist as I fall.**

**Pull me up and out of myself.**

**Tell me it'll pass.**

**Tell me you will be there.**

**That it will be alright.**

**We will be.**  
  
**Lie to me.**

**Because it can never be true.**

**See how desperate I want to believe it anyway.**  
  
**Brush you fingers over my scars and I will do the same.**  
  
**Touch me- claim me, where only you are allowed.**

**I am yours.**

**I am your privilege.**  
  
**You are my saviour.**  
  


 

John's face scrunched up in regret.

It hurt.

It fucking hurt to admit that he had forgotten about Sherlock.

And Sherlock had been waiting for him, with dinner, after a long day of work.

Waiting for John to come home and tell him all about it.

Waiting for a kiss, a hug, the sound of his voice that John knew was so important, so utterly important to the other man, almost like the oxygen he breathed.  
  
And John had left him behind with no note whatsoever.  
  
What made him choke with heartbreak was the P.S Sherlock had scribbled underneath in a differently coloured pen, obviously added at a later point.

This was meant to be a love letter.

But it turned into a plea.  
  
  


 

**You will find me in the bedroom.**  
  
**Please be so considerate to shower as I couldn't possibly bear the scent of someone else upon your skin.**  
  
**Talk to me, John.**  
  
**Please.**  
**X**  
  
  


And John grabbed hold of the countertop to keep himself upright as suddenly all the air in his lungs left him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that kind of inspired Sherlock's letter is 'Agony' by Paloma Faith.  
> I sincerely recommend you check it out (check all of her stuff out!) for it's as beautiful as it is dark!


	18. Forgiveness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He didn't know what he expected, really.

With a lump in his throat, chest tight and limbs heavy, John walked towards the bedroom and carefully opened the door.

He didn't know what he expected, really.

Maybe Sherlock hauling plates and other crockery at him the moment he entered, but  no- the note had sounded so...resigned.   
  
Sherlock accepted the fact that John had abandoned him to have sex with someone else- a client, and had stated his utter disapproval but otherwise decided to ignore it for the sake of keeping John.  
  
Because John was everything he had.

His relationship, his friendship to John was the single most important thing in his life and he seemed willing to ignore the betrayal and the broken promise for the benefit of keeping this- this bond he had with John, this level of understanding that was unique, that was vital to him.

All he longed for when he left the house for work.

All he needed when he was terrified by his demons.  
  


John sucked in a breath as he saw Sherlock's sleeping form on the bed.  
  


_**These used to be my sheets only that you wrapped around yourself.** _

_**Not anymore.** _

_**This used to be my mattress only that you rest upon.** _

_**Not anymore.** _

_**This used to be my home only that you feel safe in.** _

_**Not anymore.** _   
  
_**But I made you feel like you don't belong here.** _   
  


John eyes dropped to the floor.  
  
 ** _How can I face you after today?_**

**_Christ, I should have remembered to let you know where I am._ **

**_You probably worried yourself sick._ **

**_It shouldn't be my job to tend to your fears, chase them away, you shouldn't be so dependent on me. You shouldn't be so fragile._ **

**_But you are._ **

**_And I love you._ **

**_But today I let you down._ **   
  


 

_'Quite right.'_

Sherlock whispered in the twilight of the room.  
  


John shook.

With the realisation that he had said this aloud, but also with the relief that Sherlock still spoke to him.

The calmness of his voice sent shivers down John's spine.

 

_'Sherlock...'_

He began weakly.  
  


 

_'Come here._

_You look cold.'_

Sherlock said, his voice slightly flat.

Whether that was because he was sleepy or angry, John couldn't tell but he obeyed hesitantly.  
  


_'You didn't shower.'_

Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.  
  


 

_'Yeah, I...there's no need for that, Sherlock, I wasn't-'_   
  


But Sherlock held up a hand to silence him.

Eyes closed he breathed deeply through his nose and flipped the sheets and duvet back, inviting John into bed with him.  
  


_'Tell me._

_In the morning._

_You look like shit._

_I want you to sleep and then explain to me why you didn't come home._

_I want you to be well rested and I want you to be honest with me, John.'_

 

With that said, he turned over, his back facing John and tucking the duvet tightly around himself.  
  
He looked so small, strangely broken and yet...strong.

He was stronger than John would be, were their roles reversed.

He knew he would never manage to be so calm, thinking his partner had betrayed him.  
  


But Sherlock was different.

Sherlock had learnt to supress his emotions.

To not attract attention to his discomfort.

To hide whatever bothered him, whether it was physical or emotional pain.

He'd become a master of that.  
  
John hated it.

It would be easier to have a screaming match, say what needed to be said and get it over with.

It would be easier to know that Sherlock never had endured his trauma, that he'd had a whole, untroubled youth and never faced this nightmare.  
  
A lot of things would be easier.

But they wouldn't be the same.

And as Sherlock had said last night, if it took all that pain to lead them both towards one another- it was worth it.

John couldn't agree more.

He only hoped that what they had would still be there in the morning.  
  


 

_'I love you.'_

He whispered into the darkness.  
  
He got no answer.  
  
  


* * *

  
When John woke, it was because he noticed three things.

Firstly, the smell of tea wafting through the air of the bedroom.

Secondly, the fizz of Aspirine dissolving in a glass of water.

And thirdly, a warm hand gently pushing back his hair and a soft pair of lips touching the skin of his forehead.  
  
He blinked his eyes open and saw Sherlock, a worried frown on his face and faint blue circles under his eyes.  
  


 

_'Good morning.'_

Sherlock whispered and held out a steaming mug to him.  
  


John accepted it gratefully but with weary eyes.  
  
 _'Sherlock-'_  
  


_'Shut up.'_

Sherlock commanded and looked pointedly at the mug full of tea.

 

_'First you drink your tea, then the painkillers._

_You looked like shit when you got home and you still do._

_Judging by the tightness around your eyes that didn't even fade during sleep, you are not only emotionally uncomfortable with the situation, you are also in physical discomfort._

_I'm sure your explanation will enlighten me about why that is so, but I want to relief you of your pain first._

_I don't want to argue with you when you are not fit to do so.'_   
  


With that, he pushed himself off the bed and stalked out.  
  
John exchanged the mug for the glass of water and painkillers, for the tea was still too hot to drink, and gulped it down in one go.  
  
He sat on the bed for a while, thinking about how he should begin, but then decided to just tell Sherlock about the call from his mum, how he had rushed to the hospital, put his phone on silent as he hadn't wanted to get calls or messages from any of his clients who did not yet know that his services were no longer available.

How he had been sick in the loo of the hospital because he's been through this before, but last time it had been his father and he hadn't made it.

He wanted to tell him how it killed him inside that he forgot about Sherlock, how sorry he was that Sherlock was not yet engrained in his brain as a constant to take into account wherever he went.

How he wasn't used to have someone staying behind waiting for him.  
  


 

When the tea was drinkable, John gulped it down greedily and carefully trod out into the kitchen where he suspected Sherlock would be waiting for him.  
  
Indeed, Sherlock was sitting on one of the bar stools, back ramrod straight, his hands folded in his lap, staring at the clock on the stove.

 

**10:54**   
  


Five hours of sleep.  
  
More than he'd had during most nights in Afghanistan.  
  


 

_'Permission to speak, now?'_

He almost whispered, his voice rough despite the tea.  
  


Sherlock nodded, his gaze dropping to his lap.

Obviously steeling himself for what was to follow.  
  


 

_'Listen...I woke up...and I found your letter and I wanted to text you what a beautiful romantic bastard you are.'_

His voice shook and he drew a deep breath.

_'What I found was two dozen missed calls from my mum.'_   
  


 

Sherlock's head snapped up and he stared at John, realisation and shame fighting for dominance on his face.  
  
John shuffled his feet and avoided Sherlock's gaze.

 

_'Harry was admitted into hospital._

_She, erm, she was drunk and on her way home she got ran over by a car.'_

A quiet sob escaped his mouth and Sherlock instantly slipped from the chair and walked over to him in two strides, wrapping his arms around him and holding him tight.  
  


 

_'I'm sorry.'_

He whispered into John's neck.  
  


 

_'It's alright._

_She's fine._

_Not critical anymore.'_

John whispered, his voice thin.  
  


 

_'I didn't mean that.'_

Sherlock murmured against his neck and kissed it gently.  
  


John went still in his arms and Sherlock drew back to look at him.

This time, John met his gaze, hurt obvious in his eyes.  
  


_'Yes, of course I'm sorry about Harry, too and I'm glad she pulled through, but what I meant is that I'm sorry I didn't give you the chance to explain._

_That I just assumed you'd-'_

He cut himself off, speaking out loud what had left him shaking with grief and rage last night was impossible. 

 

_'I'm sorry I didn't trust you...but I-'_

His voice caught in his throat.

 

_'I'm sorry that you didn't think of coming to me when you felt upset._

_I should have been a better partner for you.'_   
  


Sherlock's expression was...torn.  
  


 

_'No, honey!_

_No!_

_It's not like that._

_Even if I had thought of- I...'_

 

John hesitated.

Avoided Sherlock's eyes.  
  


_'My mum was there and she doesn't know I'm-'_

He choked on the last word, too ashamed to say it.  
  


 

_'She doesn't know...about me?'_

Sherlock phrased it in a way that made it sound so innocent, so perfectly normal.  
  


 

_'No.'_

John whispered and wondered if Sherlock had told anyone about their relationship.  
  
They stared at each other for a long moment before John tried to explain himself.  
  


_'My family had a hard time accepting that Harry was gay._

_I-  they always assumed I was straight because...well, the first person I brought home was a girl._

_They just assumed, with me joining the army and all, that there was no way I could be anything but straight._

_The word bisexual doesn't exist in their vocabulary.'_   
  


 

_'But Harry knows?'_

Sherlock asked, a frown on his face.  
  


 

_'Yes._

_I- I told her once, when our step-father was so upset with her that he hit her._

_She ran to her room and I followed._

_I did what every brother would have done._

_I held her while she cried, I treated her split lip and I told her she wasn't alone._

_I'm not sure she actually believed me, but I told her that I'd had crushes on boys from school and later at uni._

_So...'_   
  


 

Sherlock hugged him tight to his chest, resting his chin on the top of John's head.  
  


_'I feel like a fool, John._

_I should have known._

_I shouldn't have assumed you'd just go and shag-'_

 

He stopped himself again.

_'I should have trusted you and known better._

_I'm sorry.'_   
  


 

_'No._

_No, Sherlock, none of this is your fault._

_You don't need to apologise for being afraid._

_You are not used to being in a situation like...us._

_You are jealous._

_That's perfectly normal._

_To me, that's flattering._

_It shows how much you care about me._

_You don't want to lose me, least of all share me._

_And so far everyone you've known has disappointed or abandoned or hurt you._

_Of course your first thought was that it happened again.'_   
  


 

Sherlock dropped his gaze to the floor, an embarrassed flush creeping into his cheeks.

John would have none of that.  
  


_'Oh, my darling, habits- it's hard for us to get rid of them, but you don't have to worry._

_It's you._

_Only you for me._

_I promise you, I promise you, my sweet, I will never do that to you._

_I will never disappoint you, I will never abandon you and I will never hurt you._

_I love you, alright?_

_I'll never love anyone the way I love you.'_   
  


 

_'But you hurt me when I ask you to.'_   
  


 

_'Yes, when you ask me to._

_It's not exactly something I enjoy, but it's my job to give you what you need, to make you feel good and better and safe and loved and if that means I have to be rough with you in bed then I will do that._

_And I know you will tell me when to stop._

_Because I know that you trust me just as much as I trust you.'_

John's hands bracketed Sherlock's face, his eyes so blue, so open, so sincere.  
  


 

_'Can we just forget about how stupid I was and how distracted you were and make love?'_

Sherlock's right hand came up to close around John's wrist.

He peeled John's hand away from his face and kissed the pulse point just below the palm.

 

_'Gently?_

_The way you like it?'_

Sherlock whispered, his lips brushing against John's skin, his eyes closed and a content expression on his face.

The worried lines gone.  
  


 

 _'That would be lovely.'_  
  
Sherlock took John's left hand in his and led him into the bedroom.

His work and the worries of last night forgotten.  
  
  
  


* * *

  
John sank into him with a sigh.

All the tension inside of him fell away within the heat of Sherlock's body.

Slowly, so agonisingly slowly he sank deeper and deeper until there wasn't a hair's breadth of space between them.

He clung to his lover's body, trying to fill him and consume him at the same time.

And Sherlock clung to his hands, wrapped around his chest, one over his heart, the other cupping his shoulder.

His eyes were squeezed shut, a concentrated frown on his face, the tip of his tongue darting out of his mouth in absolute bliss.

He exhaled and tried to rub his back against John's front.

More contact, more skin, more heat.

They stayed like this for a while, spooned up on their sides, savouring the feeling of being connected as one.

John kissed his neck, the curve of Sherlock's shoulder- so gently it made his skin crawl.

Sherlock enjoyed to be dominated by him.

And this was John's favourite way to do it.

He brought his lover to the brink over and over again, denying him release and torturing him with the gentleness of his touch, the love it beheld.

Eventually he began to move.

And they both reached the precipice.

Then they slept.

Their hands entwined in front of Sherlock's chest and John's whole body tucked around him protectively.

This was more than just making up.

This was proof.  
  


 

When John next opened his eyes, Sherlock was slack in his arms, still fast asleep.

He found himself staring at his lover's content expression, breathing deeply, his mouth slightly open and a tiny bit of drool gathering in the corner of it.

He looked so much like a child when he was dead to the world and John couldn't help but stare at him, mesmerised.

And he knew, with a clarity he'd never felt before, that this was it- this was all he would crave and need for the rest of his life.

Not even the sex, just being with Sherlock, like this.

Content.

Happy.

Alive.

He gently stroked the hair at Sherlock's temple out of the way and kissed him there.

 

_This is you._

_And here I am._

_Completely besotted with you and unable to ever walk away from this._

_I couldn't if I tried._

_And I'm a fool for not making sure you won't either._

 

With an idea settling in his brain he shuffled ever closer and went back to sleep.

Tomorrow.

When Sherlock's at work.

Tomorrow is going to be the day.  
  
  
  


* * *

  
Greg Lestrade was worried.

Almost sick with it.

Sherlock was not answering his phone, the so-called landlord at his apartment had told him that Sherlock had moved without further notice where to and when Greg had last seen him he'd just recovered from a nervous breakdown.

There was only one thing he could do: track the GPS in Sherlock's phone and go fetch him from wherever he was doing God knows what.  
  
The address he came up with was in North Kensington and belonged to a John Watson, MD.  
  


Had Sherlock sought medical help?

Was he seeing a psychologist?

But why did he not send a quick text to let Greg know he wouldn't come in to work today?

He knew that Greg would be suspicious otherwise and usually he texted with the speed of light.

Something felt wrong and Greg would rather make sure his instinct was betraying him this time.  
  


When he pulled up at the curb he looked at the building.

Ordinary two story flat.

No sign or advert that here was a physician's practice.

 

Frowning, he got out of the car and approached the bay window next to the front door.

A quick peek inside between the carefully, but not perfectly closed curtains showed him all he needed to know:  
  


Sherlock was standing in what was obviously the living room in apparently nothing but a dressing gown and holding a mug in his hand.

A slightly shorter man in nothing but pyjama bottoms approached him, took the mug from his hands, placed it on the coffee table and put his arms around Sherlock's waist in an embrace that Sherlock happily returned, burrowing his face in the other's neck.  
  


Greg's frown disappeared and was replaced with a wide, genuine smile.

So this was why he did not show up for work today.  
  


When the two man in front of him started kissing and Sherlock picked the other one up, his hands firmly on the other guys bum, him slipping his legs around Sherlock's waist and holding tight, Greg turned around in embarassment.

What he just witnessed was a moment of such intimacy, a sudden ache filled his chest.

To see Sherlock like this- the look on his face.

He looked healthy, happy and very much 'whole'.

With the smile firmly in place, he walked back to his car and drove off.  
  
He'd gladly cover for Sherlock, anytime now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so, so, so sorry!   
> Life gets in the way, the muse is on holiday and I think I shall be tested for bi-polar or something (defintely autism, though^^)
> 
> Have a resolution to the terrible situation I last left them in as I don't know when the next chapter will be up and we are on the road to 'Terrible territory' for Sherlock and John...So if you rather leave it with this have a happy ending but if you are ready for (and not triggered by) sexual abuse that will follow stay with me.
> 
> Anyway, please know how much I appreciate every single one of you who reads and comments and kudos my stories. I'd like to whip out one chapter after the other but I am a perfectionist myself and I think you and I both deserve no less that perfection^^ So it takes ages for me to be truly satisfied and ready to post and again I'm sorry for that!  
> (Have added the tag WIP now!)


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